The Side of the Angels
by MizJoely
Summary: Angels walk the earth, but they aren't the benign guardians we imagine them to be; they are God's warriors, sent to punish the wicked and strike divine terror into the hearts of humans. However, for Molly Hooper, an angel named Sherlock might just turn out to be the one exception to the rule. Cover art commissioned by Sempaiko.
1. When Angels Walked the Earth

_A/N: Yes, another new story. Thank you to the lovely asteraeceaeblue for her help with the fight scene and overall cheerleading and betaing! This is a bit dark, folks, including some semi-graphic violence in this chapter._

_From a tumblr post: _

_an au where angels are terrifying_

_an au where angels walk the streets and passers-by cower in fear at the sight of them_

_an au where angels mark scripture into their skin in languages only they can read or even comprehend_

_an au where angels spill blood daily for the sake of 'divine justice' and human law enforcement are powerless to stop it_

_an au where angels are the monsters you warn your children about before bed_

* * *

His wings were black, edged with silver that glowed faintly even in the brightest sunlight, matching the silver sigils etched into his skin, the scripture he'd elected to carve into his flesh in one of his few concessions to the traditions of his kind. Most angels chose to match their hair and eyes to their wings when taking human form, but not him; he chose eyes of a changeable blue-green and left his hair its natural dark brown tumble of curls, vain of the reddish highlights it showed when the sun caught it just right. His skin was as pale as marble, a striking contrast, he knew, to his wings and the dark clothing he elected to wear when walking amongst humankind.

His brethren deemed him an eccentric at best for what they believed to be his attempts to somehow blend in with the masses of humanity, but the truth was he was just as vain about his appearance as any other angel, and the human clothing seemed tailor-made to make him stand out more than he already did. Black denim, black button-down shirt (manifested around his wings, a trivial use of his powers but no more trivial than the angels who conjured up gem-encrusted harnesses and gold-soled sandals when visiting Earth), black shoes, and his invisible-to-human-eyes sword in its sheath slung low at his hip.

He was unlike his angelic brethren in other ways; for example, his mission today wasn't to seek out a particular soul for divine retribution, nor was he randomly trolling through the humans' minds to find any with such filth staining their soul that they no longer deserved to remain among the living. No, his mind was carefully closed to the surface thoughts of the millions of souls in this particular city – London, he believed it was called – even as his temporarily humanized senses took in every detail. It was a test of sorts; to see how well he could function without resorting to his angelic abilities. To see the world as humans saw it, or as close as he could manage without entirely transforming into one of them.

He'd even chosen a human name to use: _Sherlock_, a variation on his true name, but one that a human tongue could pronounce without too much difficulty, should he ever choose to share it with one of them. Oh, how his brethren would shake their heads at the sheer folly of one of their kind lowering themselves to speak to a human, to converse or even share information with them – personal information, even if it was a self-given name!

As he passed by the entrance to a narrow alley, he heard the sounds of an altercation, muffled but clear. He very nearly continued on his way, but a woman's voice, shrill with what sounded more like outrage than fear, caught his attention.

He might not be searching for souls to punish, but he wasn't going to avoid meting out divine justice if such souls happened across his path, either. There were some things an angel couldn't ignore no matter how willfully mind-blind. He felt the familiar tug that told him he was needed, and allowed himself to be guided toward the sins being committed…or about to be committed.

Opening up his angelic senses, he found exactly what he expected from the perpetrators…and raised an eyebrow as he also felt the victim's emotions.

Like her angry voice, her emotions were a mixture of outrage and something so entirely unexpected that he couldn't have resisted learning more about the situation if he tried.

**oOo**

"C'mon, luv, just 'and it over an' you can go on your merry way."

"Fuck off," Molly Hooper, specialist registrar at St. Bart's hospital and current attempted-mugging victim, said in a desperate snarl as she hugged her handbag to her chest. She knew she should just hand it over and report it to the police afterwards, but something about the trio of wild-eyed men standing in a loose half-circle in front of her raised her hackles even more than when they'd so roughly grabbed her and dragged her to the far end of the alley from which they'd emerged. She'd tried to call for help, but one large hand had smacked itself over her mouth, and struggle though she might, she couldn't break free of the three of them.

One of them – the grubby, unshaven ginger with the acne scars and crooked teeth – made a grab for her bag, but it was only a feint; as Molly whipped it behind her back the other two closed in, and she found herself pinned to the brick wall at the end of the small interior courtyard at the end of the alley, her hands twisted behind her back but her handbag stubbornly clutched tightly in her fingers. The knife-wielding thug to the left of her grabbed it, hard, and she was forced to yield, angry tears stinging her eyes. "Fine, you've got what you wanted, now just…go," she spat out.

An ugly laugh sounded from the leader of the threesome, and he thrust his face close to hers, leering as he grabbed the back of her head, knotting his fingers in her hair and bringing more tears to her eyes, this time of pain. "Nah, we ain't got what we wanted, not all of it, luv," he sneered. Before she could react, he dove close and shoved his mouth against hers, worming his tongue between her lips as she gasped and fought to free herself with grim determination. She bit down, hard, and was rewarded by a screech of pain as he pulled away from her.

Her moment of triumph was short-lived; with an ugly snarl, he backhanded her, knocking her head into the brick wall hard enough for her to see stars. "Stupid cunt, coulda made this easy on yourself," he growled, yanking her head back again while his two mates started to drag her away from the wall. He grabbed the front of her blouse and yanked; buttons flew everywhere and Molly cried out in fury and terror…and then gasped again as a new voice spoke from the alley's entrance.

"_If sinners entice you, do not consent_."

Molly and her attackers all turned automatically to see who it was – a rescuer, or more trouble? The three men seemed just as uncertain as she was, the leader releasing his grip on her hair and the tallest of the three shoving her closer to the one holding her wrists so tightly in his large, calloused hands.

Molly's eyes widened as the figure emerged from the darkness: it was…no, it couldn't possibly be…but it was. An angel. There was an angel stalking toward them, wings as black as a sinner's heart, but edged with silver feathers that glowed with an inner light. The scripture carved into the angel's exposed forearms also glowed silver as he continued speaking, holding a sword loosely in one hand as he approached. "_If they say, 'come with us, let us lie in wait for blood, let us ambush the innocent without cause; let us swallow them alive like Sheol_…" He fell silent as Molly's attackers gave him their fullest attention, muttering warily but pulling out additional knives and even a gun to threaten the newcomer with.

Molly almost laughed, but any such sound would only lead to hysteria, and so she bit it back. Really? These idiots thought to frighten an _angel_ into retreat? How high were they? She'd noted the tell-tale signs of drug use – her training might be in pathology, her 'patients' already dead when she saw them on her autopsy table, but she still had a physician's trained eye – but hadn't thought anyone could be _that_ delusional. Not unless they were literally raving.

The angel – the most beautiful being Molly had ever seen, hands down – cocked his head to one side and lowered his brow in what she could only assume was feigned confusion. "No? Proverbs 1:10-15 too cerebral for you? How about this then – _thou shalt not steal. _Exodus 20:15," he added, almost as an afterthought. He tapped the incomprehensible silver symbols on his left forearm. "It says so right here. But clearly none of you have ever taken those words to heart." His eyes darkened, his grip on his sword tightening as the blade suddenly burst into silver-tinged flame. "Nor, I believe, have any of you remembered the far more important words of our Lord from Exodus 20:13: _thou shalt not kill_."

Molly went cold at those words. Angels had the power to read a human's intentions, and if what he was saying was true, then her attackers hadn't planned on stopping after robbing and raping her. Whether she'd resisted or given in quietly, they would have made sure she never left this alley alive. And even though she'd never believed that human prayers had anything to do with the presence of vengeance-seeking angels on Earth, this one time she was willing to put her skepticism aside and simply send her thanks winging heavenward as she watched the scene unfolding before her.

With a swiftness and elegance that only enhanced the deadly skill that this angel possessed, he shifted the handle of the sword, his fingers deftly manipulating the weapon, and let the blade spin through the air once in a perfect circle. His feet spread apart on the pavement, the muscles in his legs visibly taut beneath the dark fabric of his black jeans. The magnificence of the sight had her mesmerized, and clearly she wasn't the only one – her would-be attackers were frozen for several moments before seeming to remember that they wanted to take down this new threat.

The first to move was the one holding the gun – she would bet money that he thought he had the upper hand, a gun versus a sword, just as she'd be willing to bet he was the sort of idiot who didn't believe the stories others had told about angels, or thought they were exaggerated. More fool he. He took a menacing step forward and unloaded the weapon, filling the alley with the blast of firing bullets, one right after the other. With one smooth movement, the angel raised his hand and held it out in front of his chest, flicking the bullets away as though he were swatting flies. Molly watched his face carefully, taking in the expression of enjoyment, his blue eyes narrowed and his mouth turned up in a condescending half-grin as he deflected the shots.

When the gun blasts stopped and the weapon only clicked emptily, the man looked panicked for a second before tossing the gun aside and yanking a knife from his belt. He looked to his companions and they shifted on their feet, hesitating, their confidence clearly plummeting.

"I really don't have all day," the angel said, sounding utterly bored. But when he spoke again, his deep baritone boomed and echoed off the walls of the alley. "Do you plan to challenge me or surrender to your clearly well-deserved fates?"

The shortest of the trio found his courage (or stupidity) and lowered his head as he charged forward, knife gripped firmly in hand. The angel quickly lowered his sword, gripped it with both hands, and brought it up again, striking the tiny blade of the knife and sending it flying into the air and far down the alley, out of sight. Before the short man had a chance to react, the angel struck him with the back of his hand, knocking him to the ground. The other two men looked at each other, angry at the assault on their comrade, and hurtled forward, one aiming for the angel's midsection and the other bringing his sizeable knife up with the clear intention of plunging it into the angel's chest.

The angel completely ignored the man who tried to tackle him, focusing his attention on the one with the knife, and Molly soon realized why. The instant the first man made contact with the angel, his arms encircling his waist in his attempt to bring him down, a bright light emanated from beneath his limbs and body, and smoke began to materialize. Seconds later, the man screamed and flung himself away, revealing burns to his hands and the side of his face.

Unfortunately for his friend, the warning came too late. As the second man tried to bring the knife down for a fatal blow, the angel caught his wrist, twisting hard. Molly heard bone snap and the knife clattered on the pavement. She watched through wide eyes as he was lifted from the ground by his now broken wrist, the angel dangling him in the air with one hand. It took her a moment to realize how he was accomplishing the feat, being the same height as his attacker – the angel himself was hovering above the ground, some five feet in the air.

Showing no signs of effort, he flung the now-unconscious form away from him, an expression of utter contempt on his beautiful, terrible face. The sigils on his forearms glowed even brighter as he alit back to the broken pavement, and Molly fancied she could see an answering glow coming from beneath the open collar of his shirt, as if his chest were similarly decorated.

Although it was wildly inappropriate, she found herself wondering how he would look with his chest bared to her sight, how his skin would feel beneath her fingers; would any human burn at his touch, or only those he sought to bring to justice? Her cheeks blazed as she fought to control her feverish thoughts. Yes, many people had fantasies about angels, not matter how deadly, but no one had ever given solid evidence that they were even remotely interested in having sex with humans. She needed to just foc…

Molly's thoughts froze as the angel spared one final, contemptuous glance at the three moaning forms huddled at his feet, then looked directly at her, his gaze meeting hers and pinning her in place.

She couldn't take her eyes away from his as he moved toward her, casually tucking his sword back into the black sheath that hung from his left hip. Because of that she missed how it vanished from sight, once again invisible to human senses. All she could see was the beauty of his ocean-blue eyes, in spite the savagery of what she'd just witnessed, at being so close to an angel in all his fierce, implacable glory.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she wondered if he'd read her thoughts, delved into her soul the way he had her attackers. And if he had, what did he think of what he'd found there?

He stopped mere inches from her body, staring down at her with what looked very much like curiosity. "You're not afraid of me," he finally said, that glorious baritone sending shivers down her spine – but no, not shivers of fear.

She shook her head, slowly at first, then with more certainty. "N-no," she breathed, barely able to speak. And she wasn't, why should she fear him? The angels walked amongst men meting out divine justice, it was true, but she was confident of her own innocence, at least of any sins large enough to capture an angel's attention. Even if he'd read her thoughts…impure thoughts were something one confessed to a priest, not something God would send an angel to mete out punishment for!

One of the fallen men moaned – the one who'd been burnt, Molly noted, unable to turn off the clinical part of her brain as her eyes automatically sought out the source of the sound. He'd need to have those injuries seen to, and soon. All of them would, actually. She tensed as she saw him attempt to raise himself to his feet, then cried out as her angelic savior whirled in a blinding blur of motion, a molten, silvery burst of angel fire exploding from his hand and engulfing the man in a blazing pyre. His screams of agony and the heat of the otherworldly blaze threatened to overwhelm Molly, and she only realized she was screaming as well when she felt a large, cool hand cover her mouth.

"Hush," the angel crooned, his voice sounding in both her ears and her mind. She shivered violently, but once again, not from fear or even outrage – she'd known what fate was in store for those three men even if she hadn't wanted to admit it; her screams had been more of shock and dismay. No, she shivered from the slow burn of pure desire his touch evoked. His body was pressed against hers so that she faced forward, and with a flash Molly understood that he wanted her to witness the deaths of the other two sinners who'd condemned themselves by their own actions.

Molly watched, eyes wide and breathing rapid, as the two unconscious men met the same fate as their partner in crime, until there was nothing left but three smoldering heaps of ash on the dirty pavement. Even their knives had been melted down to puddles of molten steel, cooling rapidly into forms as unrecognizable as the bodies of their former wielders. She continued to watch as the gun was lifted from where it had been flung and dropped onto one of the piles of ash – the leader was reunited with his weapon in silent condemnation for his crimes.

When it was over, the angel didn't release her, not entirely; his hand moved from her mouth down to her shoulder, to her arm, gripping tightly as he spun her so that her back was once against to the grimy brick wall. He loomed over her, his blue-green eyes dissecting, picking her apart, seeming to gaze deep into her very soul…and when his lips curled in a dark, knowing smile, Molly knew that he very much liked what he'd seen.

She felt his hand moving up her arm, until he was gripping her by the back of her neck, tendrils of her hair caught in his grasp as he tugged her head back so that she was looking up, up at him, brown human eyes staring into unearthly blue-green. Then his head descended, lightning-swift, and his lips covered hers in a passionate, demanding kiss.


	2. In the Arms of an Angel

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for the overwhelmingly postive response to this story! And thanks to asteraceaeblue for betaing and hand-holding. Warnings for smuttiness, as if there was any doubt where this story was headed!_

* * *

He was going to be reprimanded for this, there was no doubt in his mind. Oh, not by _Him_, of course, but certainly by his fellow angels. He might be something of a freak amongst their kind, but generally they left him alone as long as limited his interactions with humans to the writ laid down on them eons ago: to act as messengers for Him, rare though those occurrences had been in the past two millennia, and to act as instruments of His Divine Will. To smite evildoers, to bring to justice those who had fully given themselves up to sin. And that, as his elder brother would no doubt lecture, was _all_. Certainly the last time angels had allowed themselves to fornicate with human women it had ended disastrously for all concerned, especially their offspring, the giants known as Nephilim. Such interactions weren't forbidden by Him, but they certainly weren't encouraged, and as a mark of His disfavor, he'd rendered all angels sterile, a punishment that still rankled hundreds of thousands of years later.

As a result of that debacle, most angels had made it a point of pride to avoid any sexual relations with any human, male or female, simply choosing to abstain from sex all together. While many debated philosophically about temptation, some in favor, some arguing that it was the realm of Lucifer and others of his ilk, Sherlock had never formed an opinion one way or another; instead, he'd simply chosen to focus on the Work. Once God had given His angels leave to visit a more direct form of justice and punishment to His human children, the Work had become paramount, a way of relieving the tedium of simply existing, as he had for so very, very long.

Now, however, all he could think about, all he _wanted_ to think about, was the woman he'd crowded against the unyielding brick wall. She wanted this, wanted _him_, as desperately as he wanted her; he'd read it in her eyes and in the brief touch of her soul when he'd opened his senses to her a second time. Because no matter how arrogant his kind were, there were still lines that could never be crossed, and taking a woman against her will was one of them.

He'd been intrigued by how unafraid she'd been of the three men who'd dragged her into this alley. No, that wasn't entirely correct; she'd been afraid, yes, but far more outraged and even somewhat compassionate toward her murderous attackers. That whiff of compassion, of pity for those she should despise had drawn him in – why would she feel that way? Was she so lacking in self-worth, as so many humans were these days, that she believed she deserved the terrible fate that awaited her? But no, a deeper look showed that the pity she felt was only out of sorrow that fellow humans could be driven to such despicable acts, compassion for what she perceived – wrongly, although of course she couldn't possibly know that – as acts of desperation and despair.

"They wouldn't have stopped with you, you know that," he growled as he pulled his mouth away from hers, making sure to meet her wide-eyed gaze, basking in the waves of desire rolling off her petite form, so heavy and thick he could almost taste it. "They would have done this to others, have already done this to others, you know that, don't you?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, and he nodded, satisfied. There was still no fear from her, and that was almost mesmerizing, to be gazed upon by a human without fear or revulsion. Mesmerizing, and thoroughly arousing. A certain portion of his anatomy that normally remained docile and inert was growing hard, harder, hardest, demanding his attention in a way he'd experienced only rarely during his millennia of existence.

Although this reaction was unexpected, it wasn't entirely unwelcome; he was still enjoying the rush of having eliminated three evildoers from the world, relieving them of the burden of life and sending their souls for final judgement. In such a mood, he was more than happy to take what his body demanded of the very willing woman whom he'd just kissed. The woman who was currently so emboldened by his embraces that she'd spread open his shirt to reveal his chest, her fingers lightly grazing the solid flesh of his abdomen but delving no higher or lower, clearly waiting for him to give some sign that he welcomed her attentions.

He covered her mouth with his once again, lips slashing brutally across hers. She whimpered beneath the onslaught, but opened her mouth and slid her tongue against his, her little hands grasping the fabric of his open shirt as he ground himself against her core. There was dampness on the silky material of her skirt, which excited him even more. He moved his mouth down her throat and sucked hard at her jumping pulse, knowing it would leave a mark and feeling some heretofore unknown, utterly primal part of himself howling in satisfaction.

He moved his hands to cover her breasts, marveling at the way they felt beneath his palms, the hard little nipples so hot against his flesh even through the support garment she wore. He wanted to feel more; he shoved her blouse down her arms and tugged at her bra straps, smiling encouragingly when her hands fumbled for the clasp and suddenly her entire torso was open to his appreciative view. "Beautiful," he growled, taking in the sight and scent of her before greedily lowering his mouth to suckle at the dusky pink nipples so proudly centered on each breast.

While his mouth worked her breasts his hands were busy as well, finishing the work they'd started moments earlier. Soon her entire body was bare to him, the thatch of dark hair between her legs drawing his gaze and eliciting a hum of approval from his throat. She blushed and looked down, staring at his chest, at the symbols he'd chosen to place over his heart – a deliberately ironic choice of both scripture and location, made solely to annoy his deeply unsentimental brother. 1 Corinthians 13:13. Would she know the words if he quoted their source to her? Her fingers hovered over that spot, and she looked up with a question in her eyes. He nodded and watched as she traced the angelic script with trembling fingers then pressed her palm to his chest, her touch light but warm, warm enough to send the blood racing through his body until he couldn't stand another moment with so much distance between them.

He pressed her back against the wall, once again lowering his head to hers for a heated kiss. Her hands slid down his chest, to his abdomen, to the fastenings of his trousers, and then the turgid flesh of his erection. He growled at the contact, feeling a jolt of pleasure travel up his spine at the feel of her small, delicate, yet incredibly confident hands on his flesh. She'd done this before, touched a man so intimately, and he could sense her pleasure at discovering that angels weren't so very unlike human males in this area.

She was bold, undoubtedly made bolder by the attention he was lavishing on her, by the rush of adrenaline through her body at the nearness of death, the scent of angel fire lingering in the air, and he allowed it. But only for a moment; when the sensations threatened to overwhelm him, he wrenched her hands away, pressing them up against the wall on either side of her head as he took her mouth in another bruising kiss.

He ground himself against her naked form, hearing her whimpering beneath his lips, feeling the eager thrust of her pelvis against his. He gripped her wrists over her head in one hand, the other lowering to rake through the coarse hair covering her sex. The scent of her arousal met his nostrils and he inhaled deeply as he lowered his mouth to her throat, leaving a mark placed precisely opposite the one he'd already given her. One finger slipped inside her, and she made a high-pitched noise that went straight to his core, hardening him further. One look at her flushed skin, her heavy-lidded eyes and her half-open mouth, and he could read her desires as clearly as if he'd entered her mind.

Without a single thought running through his normally racing mind, Sherlock grasped her thigh and lifted it, opening her up to him, releasing his hold on her wrists as he did so. She pressed forward eagerly, moans and sighs escaping her mouth as he pressed against her hot, slick warmth. Then he was inside, deep inside her, feeling that warmth all around him, and he closed his eyes, just taking it all in.

Her hands on his hips, tugging him closer, caused him to snap his eyes open again; he gazed down at her, his lips parted on a gasp. "Want you," she moaned, her hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders. She arched her back and tugged lightly at his hair; he took the hint and lowered his face to hers for another hungry kiss. The feel of their tongues gliding together had gone from exotic to enticingly familiar after only four kisses; her lips were soft and warm beneath his, and he nipped lightly at her lower lip as she pressed herself closer to his body. Her breasts were just as warm as her lips, the hardened nipples burning into his flesh like the sweetest of fires.

Then she moved her hips, wrapped her leg around his thigh and thrust against him, and once again every thought in his mind vanished. He groaned against her mouth, his own hips moving in response to hers, then suddenly they fell into a frenzy of motion – hands exploring one another's bodies, pelvises grinding together, hips snapping, mouths nipping and kissing, sucking and even biting. He gasped as her teeth closed over his pulse point; were he human, she would leave a mark in his flesh much like the ones he'd given her.

It felt…_glorious_.

**oOo**

Molly could hardly believe herself; when had she become so bold, so uninhibited? _When an angel chose to take me as his lover, even if it's only for this one time,_ she giddily reminded herself, moaning as his hand slid against her backside, squeezing lightly while their hips continued their frenzied movements.

Her heel was digging into his buttocks – she had no idea she was this flexible – and the fingers of one hand had latched onto his right forearm while the others were still tugging at those marvelous dark curls on his head and she was going to have bruises and scrapes all over her backside when this was over but _God_ it was amazing! A little giggle escaped at the inadvertent blasphemy, but considering that she was shagging an angel in a back alley, she hoped that little slip would be forgiven.

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she gasped at the sight of his gorgeous wings, which had been furled tightly against his back, spreading out, swooping inward as if to conceal the two of them from accidental sight. She couldn't help herself; she reached up and ran her hand lightly across the soft feathers, feeling the sinewy strength of the muscles on his back as he shuddered beneath her questing fingers. His wings lifted a bit at her touch; she felt the cool breeze they raised on her feverish flesh, then her full attention returned to the incredible way he was moving against her, the warmth and solidity of his cock sliding in and out of her cunt. One hand gripped her thigh tightly enough to leave bruises, another way of marking her as he'd already done with his mouth on her throat, while the other hand busied itself touching every part of her body he could reach.

Including, to Molly's intense pleasure, her clit. He rubbed his thumb across the swollen nub and she suddenly found herself nearly screaming herself hoarse at the pleasure that throbbed through her body at that touch. Minutes after she'd shuddered through the aftershocks of her climax, he joined her, giving a low growl as he stiffened and gave one final thrust, emptying himself into her body while she shook and clung to him, very nearly weeping with pleasure.

As soon as he'd recovered from his orgasm, he released her, although he remained close by her side. She stared up at him, unable to speak, watching in amazement as he shook himself, like a cat shaking off rain, and his rumpled, disheveled clothing was suddenly back to its original state. She felt a whisper of movement against her skin, and gasped aloud as she looked down to see that she, too, had been instantly reclothed, with the damage the thugs had wrought nowhere to be seen; no wrenched, torn blouse, the buttons all as neatly in place as they had been upon leaving the factory, not even a single ladder in her stockings. Even better, the throbbing ache at the back of her head, the pain in her throat and wrists, all had vanished.

"Thank you," she said, dazed and unable to come up with anything more coherent.

He dipped his head in a regal bow. "Thank you as well," he replied, wings once again folded against his body. He reached out hesitantly – an angel, hesitant? – and brushed a single strand of hair from her forehead. "For…everything."

He turned to go and Molly impulsively reached out to stay him. "Wait!" He gave her an inquisitive look, and she blushed to the roots of her hair. "I, it's just…I don't…I don't even know your name," she whispered, lowering her lashes bashfully.

"Sherlock," he said. It couldn't possibly be his real name, his angelic name; everyone knew those were impossible syllables for human tongues to form. But the fact that he'd given her any name at all qualified as a small miracle.

"Sherlock," Molly repeated with a soft smile. And, although he hadn't asked, she added: "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."

He raised her hands up, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to her left palm before stepping away, although his gaze lingered on her face. He smiled, and the angular, alien beauty of his face was suddenly warmed into almost humanness. She watched, mesmerized by the sight of his wings unfolding, the silver feathers that made up the trailing edge blazing with that inner light as they spread to their full width. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper," he – Sherlock – said, and with a powerful burst of speed, he hurtled straight up into the air and vanished from sight.

Molly stood, eyes skyward, long after that breathtaking moment, rubbing unconsciously at the spot on her palm where he'd pressed his lips.

It wasn't until later that night, when she was jolted awake from a restless sleep by a burning pain in her left hand, that she discovered the kiss had done more than act as a symbol of farewell.


	3. Send Me An Angel

_A/N: Sorry, a bit of a long one this time round. Firstly, thanks as always to __asteraceaeblue for helping me out. Her suggestions for this chapter were invaluable. Secondly, thanks to everyone for reading, following and reviewing, I really appreciate it! Thirdly, this story is turning out to be a wee bit longer than I originally estimated - probably ten or more chapters, I think._

_And finally, I r__eceived this anon review to which I feel the need to respond: "You know, I love everything about this fic and this AU but one thing I really am skeptical about this is the fact that why Molly seems so easy. I know he is beautiful and all but isn't she supposed to be conscious or aware of what is happening. I mean it does seem strange to me that a very smart woman would give herself to a 'stranger' this easily even though he saved her life."_

_My response: Molly was fully conscious and aware of everything that was happening – did you not catch the specific line about consent? Here it is again: _Because no matter how arrogant his kind were, there were still lines that could never be crossed, and taking a woman against her will was one of them. _She wants him, he wants her. And for the record, she waits for his consent as well:_ …her fingers lightly grazing the solid flesh of his abdomen but delving no higher or lower, clearly waiting for him to give some sign that he welcomed her attentions. _Everyone is consenting and aware in this fic. And honestly? If Sherlock Holmes in angel form saved my life, I'd probably throw myself at him like a freight train. And I'm married._

_As for the other guest reviewer – THROW ALL THE FANART AT ME THAT YOU WANT! I PROMISE TO CATCH IT!_

_Ahem. Enjoy the chapter (sorry, no smut this time around)._

* * *

Sherlock perched on the highest building this city boasted, back against a concrete spire, elbows resting on his bent knees, wings arced protectively around his body and gazed unseeingly into the distance. His mind, as always, was busy, but for the first time in his long, long memory, it was focused solely on one thing.

No, on one _person_. Her. Molly Hooper, the woman he'd saved and then mercilessly fucked into a writhing, moaning mess in some nameless back alley for reasons he still couldn't entirely articulate.

She was pretty, he supposed, vaguely aware that humans put a great deal of store on surface appearance. Well, angels did too, for that matter, but not out of a desire to gain anyone's admiration or approval, but mostly in order to intimidate others and to reflect the glory of God. They were His creations, after all. But yes, Molly Hooper was pretty, with long chestnut hair and eyes a deep earthy brown, skin a soft, delicate pink-tinged peach; her lips were pink, too, as was her sex, peeking from beneath curls a shade darker than the hair on her head.

He smiled at the memory, leisurely reliving how sweetly she'd kissed him, how soft and warm she's felt against the coolness of his skin, then frowned at how his mind continued to linger on her. Molly Hooper.

"Molly Hooper." He said the name aloud, enjoying the feeling of the syllables as they rolled against his tongue. Once again her image filled his mind's eye, another small smile playing about his lips. How human, her name. Ordinary, even, at least others might dismiss it as such. He found himself wondering if she enjoyed the way his name tasted on her lips, then frowned at such fanciful thoughts.

His name. He'd given her his name, why had he given her his name? Oh, it wasn't his true name, but still. He'd given her his name. Why? He was never going to see her again, she was never going to enter his orbit, he'd make sure of it. No good would come of either of them seeing the other ever again and why why _why_ had he given her his name? Because she'd told him hers? He already knew it, had learned it when he touched her mind. Out of some misbegotten sense of courtesy? He was angel, she was a human, he owed her nothing. _Nothing_.

"Caring isn't an advantage," he said aloud, biting off each word as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth. His brother's words, Mhyzk'rovvth, the elder of the two. _Mycroft_, his mind translated the name into human speech. Caring for _humans_ isn't an advantage, had been what he meant when he'd given his younger brother that admonishment. One of their brethren had foolishly given his heart to a mortal, had begged Him to change him to a human for her sake, and his brother had wanted to impress upon himself and others of their generation how foolish a wish that had been to make.

A foolish wish, but one their Father, their Creator, had seen fit to grant. Zhv…no, that name no longer existed. His former comrade-in-arms had a human name now, and if he thought on it long enough surely he'd remember it. A flight to clear his mind, perhaps? And then, once the name returned to his mind, perhaps he would seek him out, speak to him about Molly Hooper, take advice from one who had chosen to live out a mortal life for the sake of love. Not, he scoffed to himself, that he was in love, far from it! It had been a moment of unusual weakness; what he sought wasn't so much advice to help him navigate anything so ridiculous as feelings, but reassurance that he wasn't falling into a similar emotional trap.

As he readied himself for flight, however, a sudden searing pain over his heart doubled him over. He pressed his clenched fist to his chest, his other hand resting on the roof tiles as he crouched on the balls of his feet, his breathing harsh and ragged. The pain soon faded to a dull ache and he pulled his fist away, opening his shirt and looking down for signs of the expected damage; surely one of the Fallen Angels who made up Lucifer's army had attempted an attack of some sort?

But no, the sight that met his eyes was far more alarming than anything he could have imagined; the silvery sigils he'd so casually seared into his own flesh millennia ago were no longer there.

"Impossible," he breathed, but the evidence was there before his disbelieving eyes.

The words "_and the greatest of these is love_" had vanished from his flesh.

He remained on his Earthly perch for the remainder of the night and well into the morning, struggling to come to terms with so unprecedented an occurrence. In the end, however, his decision remained the same: as the sun traveled across the sky in its endless arc, he rose to his feet with the innate grace of all his kind and stood on the very edge of the building. Raising his arms, he allowed himself to fall, his wings swooping out and turning his plunge into a glorious upward soaring that brought gasps from the throats of all who witnessed his flight.

Using his angelic senses to their fullest, he sought out the one human who might be able to help him.

**oOo**

Molly groped for the bedroom light, hissing at the searing pain in her left palm. As she opened her hand to see what had happened to her, she gasped, staring in disbelief as delicate silver symbols began to form themselves on her flesh, literally right before her eyes. After an agonizing thirty seconds had passed, the silver glow faded, but the symbols remained.

Angelic script on the palm of her hand. Angelic script that would, she suspected, exactly match the symbols etched over Sherlock's heart. The ones she'd touched first. Yes, she'd touched others – on his arm, his abdomen, his back – but this one looked vaguely familiar. It was the only one she'd focused on, too intent on admiring his very attractive, very male form to spend much time fussing over the gilding on that particular lily.

She spent the remainder of the night pacing her flat, trying to figure out what this could possibly mean. In the morning, however, she reached a decision: after calling in sick to work, she made a second call, this time to the clinic she'd used for the past four years. "Hallo, Mary? It's Molly, Molly Hooper. Is there any chance John could squeeze me in this morning? I've got a sort of…well, it's my hand, I've sort of…burnt it." She waited patiently while Mary asked if she shouldn't go to the A&amp;E, then continued: "No, I'd rather not. Look, I can't really explain it over the phone, but if he could take a look at it…Ten o'clock? Super, see you then!"

**oOo**

There was one other person in the waiting area when Molly arrived at the Barrow Street clinic, a man she didn't recognize. They exchanged the polite, fake smiles people give one another under such circumstances, then he returned to his magazine and she made her way to the counter, where Mary was waiting to greet her. Her warm blue eyes were concerned, and immediately went to Molly's bandaged hand. "Burnt yourself, luv?" she said in a low voice as Molly stopped in front of her.

Molly started to nod, hesitated, glanced down at the countertop, then back at Mary with a half shrug. "I – yes?" she finally said, not meaning to make it into a question, but there it was and she could hardly take it back.

Mary looked understandably confused, but she didn't press, just told Molly that John would see her shortly. He was currently with a patient, and of course there was the gentleman flipping through the rather worse-for-the-wear copy of _Elle_ magazine. His expression was somewhere between bored and resigned, and Molly took a seat only a few away from him without paying much attention to anything other than her personal worries. The clinic phone rang and Mary went round the corner where the patient files were kept to answer it.

Molly stared at her feet without really seeing them, and found herself starting suddenly when an unexpected voice with a faint Irish lilt piped up. "Burnt your hand? Hope it's nothing too serious."

She looked over at the stranger to discover that yes, he was the one who'd spoken. She gave him a weak smile and a nod, covering her bandaged hand protectively with her other hand without really knowing why. "Um, yeah, I sort of…well, sometimes I can be a bit…uncoordinated," she said, not sure why she was bothering to explain anything to a complete stranger.

"Yeah, me too, twisted my ankle once trying to show a mate how not to twist his ankle," the stranger said ruefully, his eyes crinkling at the corner in self-deprecating amusement. "He never let me live it down, either."

Molly gave a brief smile in appreciation of his attempt at humor, but wished desperately that she'd thought to pick up a magazine of her own when she'd taken her seat; to do so now would make it obvious that she didn't want to keep up the conversation, and she'd been raised to be polite under almost all circumstances. It was such an ingrained habit that she even sounded sincere when she said, "Oh, well, you should have just told him that it's perfectly valid to demonstrate using the incorrect way as well as the correct way!"

He laughed out loud, shaking his head a bit. "Yeah, that would have shut him up. Ah well, I'll just have to learn to be a bit quicker on my feet, is all."

"That's, um, not why you're in here now, is it?" Molly asked, darting a glance at his feet, neatly shod in a pair of navy trainers. She desperately wished her phone would ring so she'd have an excuse to turn her attention to something else, so she could try to gather her thoughts and figure out how to explain what had happened to her to John Watson, but of course the bloody thing stayed as quiet as the grave.

"Physical for my new job," he said, offering up a winning smile. Molly smiled back automatically, noting for the first time that he was young, not much older than her, with short dark hair and deep brown eyes, nearly black. His smile was easy and his features were pleasant and the slight Irish accent in his voice nice to listen to, but all she could think about was how much she wanted to jump to her feet and run all the way back to her flat.

She had no idea why she suddenly felt so nervous; surely it had nothing to do with her fellow patient! In order to prove to herself she was just being silly, she forced herself to ask the obvious next question. "Oh? What do you do?"

"IT," he responded promptly. "I'm starting at St. Bart's next month. Contingent on this physical, of course."

"Oh, that's a bit of a coincidence," she said, his words actually catching her attention. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow and she explained. "I work at St. Bart's, too."

His smile widened. "Fantastic, nice to meet someone before I start. Oh, the name's Jim," he said easily, reaching out to offer his hand. "Jim Moore."

"I'm Mo…" She was about to shake his hand when suddenly a sharp pain flared in her bandaged palm, and she winced, biting back an exclamation. Jim's expression turned concerned, but before he could say anything, Mary reappeared, holding a file.

"Mr. Moore? Dr. Watson will see you now."

John's other patient, an older woman Molly had seen around but whose name she couldn't recall, had exited the exam room and was heading for the front door. She was humming happily and rubbing her hip, but moved well enough as she made her way out, calling out a cheery good-bye to Mary. "Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson, see you in a week!" Then Mary turned her attention back to Jim, although Molly's pained expression caught her gaze and she frowned.

Mr. Moore – Jim – glanced over at Molly as well, looking just as concerned as Mary. "If it's all right with you, I'm happy to let Miss Hooper go first. I think a burn outranks a physical on the treatment scale, yeah?"

"If you're sure you don't mind?" Mary asked in a perfunctory way.

He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, once again opening his magazine. "I'm in no hurry, honestly."

Molly hesitated, but the pain in her hand seemed to be getting worse; with a murmured thanks, she followed Mary down the hall to the exam room.

She was so distracted by her own situation that she failed to notice that "Jim from IT" had known her surname even though she hadn't given it to him.

**oOo**

As soon as the reception area was empty, Jim stood up, stretching languidly while the magazine he'd been pretending to read fluttered to the floor. He ignored it, stepping on it as he moved lightly toward the counter. Planting his elbows on the beige laminate surface, he peered down the hall, lifting one hand to shade his eyes as if looking into a much brighter light than the narrow corridor actually boasted. He nodded, a satisfied smile crossing his lips but failing to reach his eyes, which had gone from a warm brown to nearly black, the darkness bleeding outward until the whites were entirely gone. His smile turned deadly; with a roll of his shoulders he straightened up, midnight black wings erupting from his back, speckled with sullen red highlights reminiscent of the smouldering remains of a fire. "Oh, Zh'erlhozk, this is going to be sooo much fun," he whispered gleefully. Raising his arms, he tilted his head back, closed his eyes…

…and vanished from sight.

When Mary returned to the waiting room seconds later, she was puzzled to see that the other patient had gone. She checked the loo; finding it empty, she shrugged and picked up the discarded magazine, placing it on the table. "I guess he doesn't really want that job after all," she murmured to herself. A cold shiver went over her spine as she approached the reception station, and she glanced involuntarily over her shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. No one was there, of course, but the feeling remained with her, troubling her to her very soul, until the arrival of a group of patients took her mind off it.

**oOo**

"So, Molly, Mary says you've burnt your hand." John gave her a sympathetic smile as she hesitated by the door to office, trying to decide if she'd made the right decision in coming here. Taking a deep breath, she managed a small smile in response and took the seat he offered her. His smile turned teasing as he added: "Cooking accident, was it?"

"Not quite, no," Molly murmured in reply, for once unable to muster her usual feisty response to the usual bantering criticisms of her (admittedly poor) cooking skills. John raised an eyebrow as she continued to cradle her hand up against her chest, not quite ready to let him unwrap the gauze she'd covered her palm with before making her way to the clinic. "It's a bit…well, it's complicated, John."

He sat down on the edge of his desk, hands folded on his lap as he studied her. They'd known each other professionally before Molly had started coming to this clinic, and she'd gone to dinner and out for drinks with him and Mary several times, but she wasn't quite sure how to tell him about what had happened to her yesterday. Should she explain it the way she would to a friend, or should she keep it clipped and professional? Some of her inner conflict must have translated to her expression, because John abruptly rose, pulled up the other patient chair, and sat next to her.

"Right, it's complicated. Is it actually a burn?"

She shook her head, hesitated, then shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure what to call it." Taking a deep breath, she unwrapped the gauze, wadding it up in her free hand before finally turning her palm for John to see. "Yesterday I was mugged," she began, then told the whole story, leaving nothing out, even though her cheeks were burning with embarrassment as she told him how she'd had sex with, not only a stranger she'd just met – but an angel. If it wasn't for the marks on her palm, she wouldn't have even dared to claim such a thing, lest she risk sounding like some delusional idiot from a chat show.

She waited tensely while John just sat there, turning her hand this way and that, his fingers warm against her wrist, his expression utterly unreadable.

"This angel," he finally said, glancing at her from under his lashes. "Did he give you a name?"

"Sherlock," she answered him, not missing the start of – recognition? Yes, definitely recognition – he gave. "You know him?"

It wasn't what she'd expected; as far as she knew, she was the only person any angel had ever deigned to give such information to. At least, she'd never heard or read of any angel sharing any name a human could pronounce. But to have John so very obviously recognize that name…her mind was whirling with possibilities and half-formed theories.

"Describe him to me," was all John said, and Molly didn't miss the sudden tension in his body any more than she'd missed that start of recognition.

Still, she didn't call him on it, instead obediently offering up her assessment of her angelic lover. "Dark, curly hair; intense, blue-green eyes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on; tall, lean; perfect cupid's bow lips…" She was aware that her voice had gone a bit dreamy with that last, but she was still watching John, and saw him shade his eyes with one hand. She fell silent when he held the other up in a "stop" motion.

"Yep, Sherlock," he said resignedly, although Molly noticed he pronounced the "Sh" as more of a "Zh".

"So," she ventured after a moment's silence, while John kneaded his forehead, brow wrinkled as if in pain, "I take it you've…met him?"

She forced down a sudden stab of jealousy; one frenzied coupling in a back alley hardly made Sherlock her personal possession. And John wasn't gay, although of course he could be bi-sexual. And frankly if an angel wanted you, then…

Her rising hysteria – tinged very liberally with a great deal of self-directed shame at even thinking such things – was cut off by John's hand on her shoulder. "I know him, yes, but not…not the way you're thinking, Molly," he said.

Her cheeks flamed and she ducked her head, unable to meet his gaze. "I'm being ridiculous," she mumbled. "I know I can't be the first human an angel's spoken to, been – been intimate with," she added in a near-whisper. "It's a bit ridiculous to think some – some back-alley tumble means anything."

"You're wrong." John's voice was sharp, and Molly raised her head in surprise, meeting his forthright gaze. "It takes a very special person to capture the interest of an angel like that. It's rare these days, so incredibly rare – and it's never, ever just about sex," he added, clearly reading her intention to protest in just such a manner. "Especially," he added, tapping the back of her now-unbandaged wrist, "with something like this happening."

"What should I do? Is there anything I can do?" John was acting so oddly, but there was something very comforting about his words as well. He acted as if he knew what he was talking about – which was ridiculous; how could any human know anything about angels outside of what they themselves deigned to share? Which was pretty much nothing except their arrogance and righteous wrath, her recent encounter notwithstanding.

John, however, dodged her questions, merely advising her to take a few days off from work, and to let him know if there were any changes in her condition. When she pressed him for his opinion – had he ever seen anything like this before? – his answer had been a definite "no" but at the same time, he counseled her not to worry. As if she could manage that, even with the sedatives he prescribed in case she continued to be unable to sleep.

In the end, however, all Molly could do was exactly what he advised – go home, try to rest, take a few days off, and see what happened next.

**oOo**

As soon as Molly Hooper had left his consulting room, John ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and gave out a heartfelt groan. He'd never expected to interact with _any_ angel again, let alone Sherlock. Not after how they'd left things, after he'd given up his immortality for the love of a human woman. A love Sherlock had sneeringly predicted would wither and die long before their human forms. "You'll regret this," he'd warned, and John had recognized the tinge of desperation in his voice, his own heart breaking as he recognized the cause behind it. He and Sherlock had been as close as brothers – closer even than Sherlock's own brother. But John's love for Mary could not be denied, and so he'd chosen mortality over what Sherlock and the other angels all believed to be a deeper, more abiding bond between angels. The words they'd exchanged had been harsh, bitter, but in the end John had stood by his choice – and in spite of Sherlock's predictions, he'd never once looked back.

No, John was happy with his human life – more than happy with Mary as his wife, his companion, his soul mate, if he were feeling poetic. He thanked God for her every day of his life – and needed very badly to speak to her about Molly's situation.

As he returned to his desk and reached for the phone to ask Mary to join him, however, he felt…something. A tingle of energy, a shiver of something he could describe as potential ran up his spine; his vision blackened for a second, and when it cleared, he was no longer alone in the room.

He stared up at the dark figure now standing directly in front of his desk, looking exactly as Molly had described him – exactly as John remembered him looking, even though it had been over a decade since they'd last seen one another.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, his voice the same, deep baritone John had last heard hurling bitter predictions of doom at him. "It's been a long time."


	4. Where Angels Fear To Tread

_A/N: Many thanks to asteraceaeblue for looking this over, and to all my readers and followers and reviewers for sticking with me! (P.S. I own nothing but Sherlock's wings, they're mine and you can't have them!)_

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Once back in her flat, Molly collapsed onto the sofa. Her ginger cat, Toby, jumped up onto her lap, purring softly and kneading her trouser-clad legs until curling himself up into a contented ball. She absently stroked his fur with her right hand while staring at her once again bandaged left hand.

John hadn't actually helped, but then, had she really expected him to? What could he possibly have done, whipped out a tube of ointment to remove the markings laid on her flesh by an angel? And why had Sherlock marked her this way, what reason could he have had? She'd gotten the very strong impression when he left her that it had been forever. Was it a sign, a warning to other angels, was she under his protection now?

So many questions, none of them with answers.

As she tried to decide whether or not to unwrap her hand, she also found herself contemplating the idea of talking to a priest or minister. Should she? She attended church every few weeks, and her mother could probably put her in touch with Father Brown from their home parish. He'd long retired to keeping bees, but was still willing to talk to any of his former parishioners if they felt in need of spiritual comfort without the formality of going directly to the church.

Perhaps, she decided. But not right now. Right now she was going to get some badly needed rest, take two of the pills John had given her, and sleep for a good, solid eight hours. Any decisions could wait until she woke up, hopefully clearer in her mind and easier in her soul.

But as she downed the pills and a glass of water, she couldn't help the way her mind kept returning, over and over again, to that first, electrifying kiss she and Sherlock had shared. His lips, cool against her flesh until suddenly they warmed, the feel of his body as he pressed against her… "Why?"

She asked the question aloud, dumping out the rest of the water and setting the glass on the counter next to the sink. It all came back to that single question; why had Sherlock made such passionate love to her after saving her life? What about her made her different? John said with angels it was never just about sex – and how, she suddenly wondered, had John known that? She'd been too flustered and caught up in her fretting to wonder at the time, but she was certainly wondering now. She considered calling him back, demanding answers he should have given her, but judging by the speed with which he'd hustled her back home, he might not be willing to talk to her. It would be far easier to demand answers from him in person, but having taken two strong sedatives she wasn't about to put herself in the hands of public transportation again.

Leaving her hand wrapped and hoping desperately that the sedatives would knock her out quickly so that her mind would just stop churning, Molly slipped into her most comfortable sleep shirt, curled up under the covers (with a purring Toby nestled against her side) and closed her eyes.

**oOo**

A half-hour's drive north, John Watson MD yelped and fell back against his desk, staring hard at the celestial being that had simply materialized in front of him. "Bloody drama queen," he muttered as he sank into the nearest chair, running a shaky hand across his face. "Jesus, Sherlock, couldn't you just come in through the front door like everyone else?"

Sherlock frowned at the blasphemy, something John would never have even considered committing had he still borne his wings. However, he wasn't here to take his former friend to task for his new human failings; he was here to discuss…"Let me guess, you want to talk to me about Molly Hooper, yeah?"

Sherlock stared at John, blinking once, slowly, the only sign he gave of his surprise at hearing that name from the former angel's lips. "Yeesss," he said slowly, drawing out the word. "But how did you…"

"She was here, earlier." John nodded toward the door. "You just missed her, matter of fact; five minutes sooner and you'd have seen her here. She's one of my patients."

Although Sherlock did nothing so gauche or obvious as staggering back in shock or dropping his mouth open, the pair of rapid blinks of his eyes was the angelic equivalent. "Molly…was here?"

John nodded. "Yup." He cocked an eyebrow in what Sherlock recognized as an attempt to appear far more insouciant than he obviously felt, leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and asked the most disconcerting thing he could possibly have managed. "So. How did your Mark get onto the palm of her hand, then?"

The stillness with which Sherlock held his body at those words would have been impossible for a mortal to attain. His face was completely blank as he tried to process those impossible words. Surely John must be mistaken. He had to be, no other answer was acceptable. "That's impossible," he snapped, glaring at the medical man as if he'd deliberately set out to provoke him. Or was lying.

John's temper had been a difficult thing to control when he'd first become human, but over the years he'd learned not to fly off the handle at the least provocation. This, however, was _not_ one of those situations. He stood back up, bristling at Sherlock's tone as well as his attitude; if his former friend wanted to have a go at him, burn him down where he stood for daring to defy one of God's messengers, then so be it. He got right up in Sherlock's face, glaring up at him as he snapped, "Well if it's so bloody impossible then why did I just spend fifteen minutes staring at the words 'and the greatest of these is love' etched into my patient's palm? Hmm? And still shimmering with holy light," he added spitefully at Sherlock's shocked expression.

Without another word the angel unbuttoned his shirt, showing John the bare spot on his chest where those same words had once glimmered, far larger and more brightly than on Molly's human flesh. "John," he said hoarsely. "I think…I might be falling from grace."

The words spilled from him as he described everything that had happened the previous day, how he had given into temptation and appeased his unexpected sexual hunger for Molly Hooper as if he were as base and carnal as any mere human. How he'd spent the entire night meditating on what had happened – and how best to handle the situation.

John was silent for a long time after Sherlock stopped speaking. He was a mass of conflicting emotions he was certain the angel could easily read; honored that he'd been the first one Sherlock had thought to contact about the day's events, worry about it meant for him, anger at him for doing something so completely out of character…that thought brought him up short, and he shot a tentative look at his former best friend. "It's not…she wasn't one of the Fallen sent to do just this, tempt you, right? I can't sense them as easily as I could when I still had wings, but I can still feel…something," he admitted, words he'd never spoken even to his beloved Mary for fear she would think he was simply clinging to a last vestige of his angelic nature. "I've never felt anything from Molly in all the years I've known her, but…" His voice trailed off and he studied Sherlock's once again still form.

"No," Sherlock pronounced after a long series of minutes passed in silence. "There's no sense of the Fallen about her; you know they can't mask themselves from an angel for very long, nothing's changed about that in the last…" He wrinkled his brow and his eyes went distant, as if calculating.

"Twelve years," John supplied easily. "It's been twelve years, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked and stared at him, and John knew he was probably trying to slot that information into place in his mind. Twelve years was nothing to an angel, but it was a significant chunk of time to a human. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and flicked over him, and John waited stoically for him to finish cataloging the physical changes he was now realizing had occurred to his former comrade-in-arms.

After a long moment he made throat-clearing noise and gave a sharp nod. "Twelve years, right. Well, I can assure you, nothing's changed between the Fallen and the Angels in those twelve years. There's no way that one of Lucifer's Get would have been able to mask its presence or influence for as long as Molly and I were…intimately engaged. And," he added, sounding more decisive with every word, "I could read her as easily as any human, no barrier between her mind and mine at all."

John nodded as Sherlock fell silent. "Right, then," he said. "So this was unplanned, an entirely accidental encounter, and it's the first time something like this has happened, yeah?"

Sherlock gave him an impatient look. "Yes, John, it's the first time I've fornicated with a human, and it's certainly the first time one of my Marks has vanished from my body and reappeared…her palm, did you say? Which one?"

John squinted and played the previous scene back in his mind. "Left," he replied after a moment. "D'you think that's significant?"

"As far as my memory goes, John, this is an unprecedented occurrence," Sherlock snapped, his wings lifting and falling in small, agitated motions. A single feather drifted free and wafted to the floor, unnoticed by either man as it settled beneath John's desk. "Unless other Angels have had this happen and not reported it to anyone, which seems unlikely…"

"You didn't," John cut in. "Report it, I mean. To anyone but me, that's what you just said."

"And?"

He shrugged. "And maybe it happens all the time, but no one talks about it. Have you tried placing the words back, or putting something new there?" He pointed at the bare spot on Sherlock's chest. "Have you thought about talking to Molly about it? Or even asking Him for guidance?" He grimaced a bit. "Not that you were ever willing to do so in the past," he muttered, but of course Sherlock heard him.

Heard him, and actually grinned ruefully. "Ye-es, well, He knows what a stiff-necked, stubborn arse I can be," he muttered, pulling an answering grin from John's lips. It was…it was good, being able to talk to Sherlock without angry recriminations and accusations of disloyalty marring the conversation. "But no, I don't want…if this is punishment for what I've done, you know He would prefer I work it out for myself, make restitution before seeking forgiveness." His lips turned downward. "But it's not a sin, He's never forbidden us from taking physical comfort in anyone's arms, especially since He made us incapable of procreating."

"Yeah, can't say I miss that," John said with a happy grin. At Sherlock's questioning glance, he reached over and turned two picture frames around so the Angel could see them. "These are my kids, Harry and Mike and little Charlotte, she's just two. The boys are seven and nine. We're thinking about having another one," he announced proudly.

Sherlock stared at the framed photos as if mesmerized. "Three children," he murmured. "I never imagined…I thought you would still be, well, _you_, just without wings or angel fire or…"

John shook his head. "No," he said, his voice as soft as Sherlock's. "It's not like that. Except for being able to feel a certain change in energy like when you just appeared, or when one of the Fallen is physically close enough for me to touch, I'm fully human. No wings, no angel fire, no psychic abilities, no levitation or superior strength…no immortality," he finished, lifting his hands and gesturing towards the lines on his face.

"And in exchange, you have children," Sherlock said. "And a wife, the woman you gave everything up for. Has it truly been worth it?"

John lifted the nearest frame and gazed down at the picture, Mary and the their three children smiling up at him, then nodded. "Yeah," he said, his voice gruff with emotion, a suspicious moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. He blinked rapidly and met Sherlock's gaze. "Yeah, it's worth it. I have no regrets. Told you I wouldn't."

"Yes, you did." Sherlock studied him again. "I guess that means I was…wrong."

John nodded. "Completely."

"Right."

Sherlock looked away, then back again, and John knew that was as close to an apology as he was ever going to get. Still, it was better than the nothing he'd expected; he'd take it. "About Molly Hooper…d'you want her address?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I can find her, the same way I found you." His lips lifted in a smirk. "Give my regards to your family, John. I'd offer my blessing but I suspect your Mary wouldn't accept it – and if I am slipping from grace," he added with a frown, "it wouldn't be worth the breath I used to speak it."

"She'll just be glad to know that we've…that we're okay now. We are, right? Okay now?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, John. We are." He pulled his wings in close, gave a wink and a grin, and vanished as rapidly as he'd appeared.


	5. Heaven Is A Place On Earth

_This will be an M rated chapter. Thanks to asteraceaeblue for betaing, and to everyone for following and favoriting and reviewing! It means a lot to me!_

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She was sleeping when he manifested in her small flat, although her feline companion was wide awake – and entirely unimpressed by anything about Sherlock except his wings. The marmalade tabby seemed determined to bat one of the glittering, silver-edged feathers off, and Sherlock was forced to raise his wings up higher than usual to keep them out of the annoying little pest's reach. God may have given man dominion over the beasts, but that didn't mean all the beasts acknowledged that dominion – especially cats. "Shoo," he hissed when the wretched animal seemed undeterred by Sherlock's angelic aura, but it just blinked up at him, then wound its way around his ankles, purring loudly as if trying to soothe him into lowering his defenses – and, more importantly, his wings.

Impatiently flicking his fingers, Sherlock caused a container of the feline's treats to manifest two feet away from them; another flick, and the container overturned, the lid came off, and the noisome bits of brown came tumbling onto the carpet. The feline pricked its ears and sauntered away, nosing amongst the treats before crouching down, its tail twitching, and beginning the process of devouring the largesse that had been bestowed upon it.

Although Sherlock had simply chosen the most expedient method of dealing with Molly's pet – not wanting to antagonize her by simply vaporizing the pest – he still felt a twinge of annoyance at the sight. Surely he hadn't done exactly as the little beast wanted him to?

Irrelevant. He turned his head, delicately sending out tendrils of thought toward the sleeping woman in the room…ah, yes, that one. Second door to the left. He moved gracefully down the narrow hall, his wings pulled tight to his body, not bothering to decrease their size in spite of the fact that they still brushed against the brightly colored walls. He'd already taken in and deduced her love of cheerful, bright colors when he'd first laid eyes on her, and the clashing hues of her dwelling only confirmed that her taste was utterly atrocious – and utterly human.

What he couldn't fathom was why he found that so endearing.

As he pushed open the door to her bedroom, he wondered (not for the first time) why He had given His angels emotions so similar to those of humans. Or rather, why He'd created humans with emotions so similar to the ones He'd gifted – or possibly cursed – His angels with. It would be so much easier to perform their angelic duties, whether it be meting out punishment or protecting specific souls or passing along His messages and commands, if emotions weren't involved.

Then Sherlock's gaze fell upon the face of the woman sleeping in the semi-darkness of the small bedroom, and he knew for a fact that emotions were, indeed a curse – one he ardently prayed could be excised completely from the angelic heart.

It wasn't that he felt a resurgence of the lust that had overcome him after he'd rescued her from her attackers; no, that would have been understandable, controllable. It was how vulnerable she appeared in her sleep, how small and helpless – and how very protective he felt of her.

He snorted softly. Protective. Of a mere human. Just because he'd fucked her…no. Not just because of that. One hand drifted up to rest against his heart – or rather, against the bare spot above his heart where the words 'and the greatest of these is love' had once been inscribed. According to John, those same word were now etched into the palm of Molly Hooper's hand.

He had to see it for himself. Not that he doubted John's veracity, but because it was still so astounding that such a transfer could have taken place. He drifted closer to her sleeping form, a smile forming on his lips as she sighed and rolled onto her back. He touched her mind, very gently, just enough to ensure that she would remain sleeping, then settled onto the edge of her bed and reached for her hand.

It was wrapped in a bandage; he lifted it gently and took the time to unroll the stretchy fabric rather than simply willing it away, some part of him uneasily wishing to prolong the moment of truth. When he came to the last layer, he turned her hand over so that it was palm down, laid it on his thigh, then pulled it free. He dropped the bandage to the floor, staring down at her hand in fascination; so small, so delicate, and yet so capable of strength. The image of that hand wrapped around his erection flashed into his mind, the sense memory so strong he felt a stirring in his trousers and a sudden flush of heat over his body. Ah, there it was, the lust he'd felt from the moment he first locked eyes with her in that squalid little alley; so it hadn't been an isolated reaction fueled by adrenalin and exultation, not merely a way to delay the inevitable return of his eternal boredom for a few precious moments longer.

On impulse he reached down and brushed a few strands of chestnut hair from her face, wanting to see if they felt as silky and soft as he remembered. Her hand twitched beneath his and her lips curled up in a smile as a soft sigh escaped her lips. A second impulse brought his face down to hers, wanting to feel that smile against his own lips, but he pulled back at the last second, chastising himself for such crass behavior. She was entirely unaware of his presence; to take advantage of her like this would be a sin, and although he prided himself on his ability to bend the rules, he never broke them.

Instead, he returned his attention to her hand, finally lifting it up so he could see her palm. He went very still as he studied the silvery markings, shimmering slightly in the dimness of the room, although only a very sharp pair of human eyes would have been able to discern the glow. To an angel, however, it was as clear as the full moon on a clear night, and no mistaking the holy origins. There was absolutely no way for even one of the Fallen to fake such a thing to an angel's eyes.

"And the greatest of these is love," he whispered as he traced the sigils with the tips of his fingers. Molly sighed in her sleep, smiling so sweetly and innocently that he suddenly felt like a veritable cur, like one of the human scum who stalked such innocents as their prey. He didn't belong here, not while she was sleeping. He'd confirmed what John had told him, even if he still didn't understand _how_ the transfer had occurred, and now he should go.

But as he released her hand and rose to his feet, ready to transform his human shell into pure energy and vanish from this place as quickly as he'd appeared, a small noise stopped him. He turned, and was stunned to see Molly staring at him, wide awake and alert as if she'd neither imbibed a sleeping concoction nor been touched by his power to deepen her sleep.

Another mystery to ponder – and not a welcome one. "How did you do that?" he snapped, his wings lifting and settling uneasily in reflection of his emotional turmoil. "I sent you into a deeper sleep than your medication could achieve, you shouldn't have awoken for hours yet!"

**oOo**

Molly stared at Sherlock, shocked at his presence here, in her flat – in her bedroom! – and uncomprehending of his enraged words. "Wh-what?" she stammered out as she levered herself up on her elbows. "I didn't do anything, what do you mean?"

"You're just a human, you're not one of the Fallen in disguise or possessed by one of them, you're not a former angel, so how – Oh!" His eyes lit up and the anger that had filled him seemed to dissipate, the amber flecks in his ocean-blue eyes glimmering. "I see now." He peered into her eyes, and Molly felt…something. The delicate touch of his mind on hers, similar to what she'd sensed from him in the alley. "The holy energy that burned the Mark into your hand, it seems to have gifted you with a limited immunity to my other abilities; I was able to deepen your sleep, but you awoke before anyone else would have. I wonder how long it'll last?"

He looked intrigued, and Molly couldn't help but feel the same way, her initial fear at seeing him fading as scientific curiosity took over – along with the giddy sense of wonder she felt at knowing something about angels that other humans didn't. Then their eyes met and she felt her cheeks heating up as the memory of what had happened between them rose in her mind. "Um, okay," she managed to stammer out as he made no further move, simply stood there in the semi-darkness of her bedroom. So many questions were clamoring for her attention she hardly knew what to say next. Why had he come? She flexed her hand unconsciously, then started as her eyes flew down to see that the bandage had been removed. At the sight of the silvery symbols – his Mark, he'd called it – one question overrode all the others. "Why did you do this?"

His answer both startled and disconcerted her. "I didn't." Then, before she could ask: "Not intentionally," he clarified. "In fact, I'm not sure why or how it happened at all; I've never heard of such a thing occurring and will have to do some further research."

She was going to ask what he meant by 'further' research, but was distracted when he gestured toward the edge of her bed in a silent question. A bit shocked that he wasn't just arrogantly assuming she'd have no objection to him sitting next to her, she simply nodded and scooted over a bit. She was unable to keep her eyes from his as he gracefully took a seat next to her. A slight movement of his wings caught her attention and she watched as they settled high on his shoulders, the dark, silver-edged feathers trailing over her rumpled bedspread and down to the brightly colored rag-weave rug on her floor. If she ever needed a physical reminder that she wasn't talking to another human being, there it was, in all its night-dark glory.

Well, that and the unearthly swirl of colors in Sherlock's blue-green eyes. It wasn't as if heterochromia iridus was unheard of in humans, but the faint gleam of silver at the rims, the barest hint of golden angel fire smouldering in the amber speckles made it clear these were not the eyes of a human.

"You still desire me." She started and blushed even redder at his matter-of-fact words, started to stutter out a denial but fell silent as she realized how foolish that would be, to try to lie to someone who could so easily read her thoughts. Speaking of which… "It wasn't your mind I was reading, merely the expression on your face," Sherlock said. "I only delve into human minds when I need to."

"O-okay," she said, hating how small her voice sounded. "That's…good. Good to know." _Shut up!_ she counseled herself. _Stop babbling. _

"I…still desire you as well," he said, an entirely unexpected admission that left Molly floundering. Then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers, and the flood of desire that rose up in her overrode any hesitation, any concerns, and she found herself kissing him back as fervently as she had back in that filthy alley.

**oOo**

This had _not_ been what he intended to happen. He'd come to her dwelling – a flat, his mind supplied the word from its endless stores of knowledge – intending to discuss the transfer of holy writ from his flesh to hers, to see if there was some particular reasons said transfer had occurred, perhaps even to attempt to reclaim the marks.

Kissing Molly was nowhere on that list of Things To Do. Nor was confessing his continuing attraction to her. Certainly dismissing his clothing to the aether wasn't on that list, or helping her remove her own. He definitely had made no plans to lay her back on her bedding, shielding her body with his own, the tips of his wings brushing against her hardwood floor as he peppered her throat and face with soft kisses. The sensation of her sex against his thigh, where he'd so haphazardly thrust it in his eagerness to cover her body with his, was scintillating; the sound of her moans as he lowered his head to capture one silky breast in his mouth, transcending; the feel of her nipple against the roof of his mouth, beneath his tongue, softly captured between his teeth – dare he think it? – divine.

Her throat was still darkened on either side by his earlier bites, the blood raised up to pool and show that she'd been well loved. He'd healed her other injuries but not those, and had not thought to question his reasoning at the time. Now, however, as he gazed at them in satisfaction, as he traced them gently with his tongue, he understood that he'd wanted her to have more than simply a memory of their time together. He'd wanted to leave her a physical reminder, something she would see every time she gazed in the mirror, something she would feel every time she pressed her fingers to her own flesh.

Had that desire to leave his mark on her somehow translated into the transfer of the words on his chest to the palm of her hand? It was something to think about, but not now. Not when he had so much more of her to explore, to feel, to taste than he'd allowed himself that first time. He moved his mouth reluctantly away from her throat, back to her exquisite breasts, murmuring worshipfully in his own tongue as he settled himself between her legs.

"What?" Molly gasped out, leaning up on her elbows to peer down at him. Her hair was falling about her face in a chestnut waterfall, her skin glistening with sweat, pinks cheeks and lips swollen from his kisses.

"'_Your breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies_'," he translated for her, raising his head to meet her gaze. "Song of Solomon." Then he bent his head again and commenced kissing his way down her sternum, to her soft abdomen, the slight indentations near her jutting hipbones, the tops of her thighs. He heard her sigh softly, felt the slight movement of the bed as she lay back down, breathed in the heavenly (yes, he would use that term, dammit) scent of her as she shifted her legs enough to allow him better access to his current destination.

Although he was hardly a virgin as humans defined it, his few previous assignations had been far in the past, when he was still very young and curious to explore everything eternity had to offer. He'd given up such fleshly delights, grown bored and a bit jaded with angelic sex, assumed that such sport with humans could only come in a poor second at best.

How wrong he'd been. Angels were passionate, yes, but they always kept a part of themselves reserved, male or female, which lent a certain distance, a coolness to their pairings, no matter how physically fervent such activities might be. He still had no idea if it was true of all humans, but it was certainly true that, with Molly, there was so much more to sex than he'd ever experienced. For once, he thought he might understand why humans called it lovemaking; what he'd sneered at as an unnecessary euphemism, he now understood to be nothing more than a literal truth: this wasn't just fucking, this was connecting on a deeper level than mere sex, more than just two bodies coming together for mutual pleasure.

As he dipped his tongue between Molly's legs, tasting her, sliding between her slick folds, lapping at the flowing juices he encountered, his eyes snapped shut in pure bliss. His hands found their way beneath her thighs, cradling her rear, kneading the soft flesh and wrenching a series of sighs and moans and quiet, mewling cries from her throat as he explored with lips and tongue and fingers her most private recesses.

When he'd tasted his fill (no, wrong, he'd never have enough of her, if he survived another twenty millennia), when she'd gasped and cried out and clutched the sheets in a fevered frenzy as she orgasmed…only then did he raise his head and make his way back up her sweet form, kissing every inch of her shuddering, sweating flesh before coming to a stop with his body arched over hers and their foreheads pressed together.

He waited for her panting, ragged breaths to even out, for her thundering heartbeat to slow to normal, before speaking. "The Greeks claimed the gods dined on nectar and ambrosia. In heaven, the only food is manna, its taste indescribable to a human." He paused, lifting his head and kneeling up gaze down at her, his body thrumming with need but a fierce desire burning in his soul for her to understand him. Her eyes were open – so brown, so earthy, nearly luminous in the dim lighting of the room and so utterly, profoundly _human_ that it made his heart give a peculiar hitch in his chest – but she remained silent, clearly waiting for him to continue. "I never thought I'd say anything like this, Molly Hooper but you…you're my manna. My ambrosia."

He could feel the words dancing on the tip of her tongue, humming through her mind; anxious words, words of denial, protestations that he couldn't possible mean what he was saying – that they'd only just met, that they knew nothing about one another, that they were quite literally from different worlds.

_I'm only human. I don't count._

That last protest was so obvious in her expression and body language it was as if he'd intruded on her mind, or as if she'd spoken the words aloud; without a moment's hesitation, he responded to the thought. "I'm an angel, Molly." He leaned down to press his lips against her own. "I've seen your soul, remember?" He kissed her again, softly at first but growing in passion as she twined her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, their tongues twining as he lowered his body so that he could feel every inch of her beneath him. "Your soul is beautiful," he said when the kiss ended, reaching down to stroke her glistening sex, delighting in her soft moan of pleasure at his touch. "And that's the only thing that does count, in the end."

The faint voice of his brother Mhyzk'rovvth sounded derisively in the back of his mind as he sheathed himself deep inside her; words like 'sentiment' and 'fool' which he ignored through ease of long practice. The transfer of symbols from his flesh to Molly's had to mean something; the beauty of her soul touched some part of him long buried, transforming this second encounter into something as far beyond carnal as Heaven was beyond Earth.

Even the base sounds of their lovemaking – the soft grunts, the slap of flesh on flesh, the sighs and moans – all held some profound truth that he was close, so close to grasping. Then Molly cried out his name, her hands moving restlessly to grip his shoulders, the top edges of his wings, his hair, her body convulsing with pleasure beneath his and his mind went rapturously blank as he spilled his seed within her womb.


	6. Earth Angel

Sherlock watched Molly as she slept: lying on her back, with one arm across her midsection and the other sprawled across her pillow above her head. This time he gave in to the impulse to move the strands of hair that had fallen across her face, brushing them back with the tips of his fingers, hearing her soft sigh as she turned her head to the side, still sleeping. He gave in to a further impulse, bending down to brush his lips across her forehead before rising to his feet, absently willing his clothing back onto his body. She was still gloriously naked, red and purple bruises on her throat and chest showing where he'd so enthusiastically left his mark, and the palm of her left hand still glowed softly in the darkness of the bedroom, the words as firmly engraved in her flesh as they had been before he joined her here.

He'd attempted to will the symbols back onto his breast, the way he'd willed them into being in the first place, but they remained stubbornly affixed to Molly's flesh. She'd been clearly uneasy when, after their lovemaking, he'd announced his desire to experiment with removing them, but had allowed him to hold her hand in his while he bent his mind to the problem.

To no avail.

Instead of allowing his failure to trouble him, he'd pressed a kiss to her palm, much as he'd done when left her the first time. His lips tingled as they grazed the sigils, more evidence that the transfer involved power as well as symbols. The troubled furrow between her brows vanished as he took her back into his arms, making love to her again, and again, until finally she'd fallen into an exhausted, sated sleep.

Now that he'd once again allowed himself to find pleasure in her body, however, he felt doubt creeping in, a most unwelcome and rarely experienced emotion. Why did he continue to seek her out? And much as he would like to lie to himself and say it was only the mystery she represented because of the transfer of angelic script, he couldn't. If that was all it was, then he would never have made love to her a second time…and then a third, and a fourth and a fifth. He never would have tasted her exquisite form, or spoken to her in his own tongue.

Oh, there was a mystery to be solved here, but it had more to do with his own impulsive reactions to Molly Hooper than it had to with Molly Hooper herself. Yes, she was a pure soul, in spite of her own less-than-flattering personal assessment of herself; yes, making love to her had been far more intense and soul-shattering than he could have possibly imagined, but _why_? Why was he so compelled to know her in both the Biblical and literal sense?

It would take further thought. He needed to return home, far from the influence she was wielding over him, however unknowingly. Time spent amongst his own kind would help him clear his head.

Willing his human form into purest energy, he vanished from the flat, with only Toby's golden eyes to mark his departure.

**Two Weeks Later**

Molly trudged up the stairs to her third-floor flat, a Tesco's bag in one hand and a Styrofoam container of Indian take-away in the other. Work had been hellaciously busy, her left hand had kept twinging with almost-pain even though the markings on it had faded to near invisibility, and her feet were killing her.

In short, this entire day had sucked. All she wanted to do was feed Toby, eat her dinner in front of the telly, take a long, hot bath, and crawl into bed.

So naturally Sherlock chose this day to reappear in her life.

As soon as she turned the key in the lock, the door opened; before she could scream or back up, she was hauled into the flat and pressed against the nearest wall, a pair of hungry lips devouring hers as the bags spilled from her hands to the carpeted floor. She just had time to register the silver-edged black wings that most easily identified the intruder before Sherlock began impatiently pulling at her clothes.

She turned her face away from his, gasping, "Wh-what is this? I thought you were gone, you just left me sleeping - !"

"Needed to think," he growled, fingers not slowing as he nimbly undid the buttons on her blouse. Her coat and favorite cherry-patterned cardigan had already landed on the floor next to the bags she'd dropped, although Sherlock at least had the decency to take her handbag and place it and her keys on the nearby table. "Done thinking now." He paused to peer into her eyes, brow furrowed as he asked, "Unless you no longer consent?"

Looking into the ever-changing blue-green of his eyes, her lips still tingling from the kiss he'd greeted her with, Molly could only shake her head. As he started to pull back, she realized he'd misunderstood; she grabbed him by the arms to keep him in place - as if a mere human could force an angel into doing something he didn't want to do! "No, I mean, yes, yes I still consent," she said breathlessly.

"Good." With that single word he swooped down for another burning kiss, one hand in her hair and the other returning to the task of removing her clothing. By the time the kiss ended, leaving Molly breathless and flushed, his own clothing had vanished and hers lay tangled around her ankles. He lifted her in his arms and carried her down the narrow hall to her bedroom; she twined her arms around his neck and watched, fascinated, as he furled his wings so close to his body that not so much as a single feather brushed against either wall or ceiling.

She couldn't resist reaching out to stroke the curved edge rising above his left shoulder, as always loving the sensation of soft feathers covering the hard ridge of cartilage beneath. "You don't mind, right?" she murmured as they reached her bedroom. "If you didn't want me to, to touch you there, you'd tell me, right?"

As he set her on her feet, he caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up toward his. "No part of my body is forbidden to you, Molly Hooper." He kissed her again, his tongue sliding against her parted lips, engaging with hers in a languid duel while she just clung to him. His lips moved to her ear, teeth nibbling delicately at her lobe, his breath a soft caress as he purred, "I already know the same is true for you." His grin turned positively devilish, if such a word could be used to describe an angel; the slide of his fingers up her arms was pure sin, his voice velvet, and Molly felt her knees weaken at the overload of sensations.

Had it been this intense, this overwhelming before? Had he seemed to burn with need the way he was now? "Wh-what do you want?" she moaned out as his hands covered her breasts, his kisses turning bruising as he sucked the soft flesh at the base of her throat between his teeth.

"You," he breathed, easing one thigh between her legs. He moved his hands to her hips and lifted her as easily as if she'd been a child, or a doll; she took the hint and wrapped her legs around his waist, trapping his erection between their bodies as he turned and carried her the few steps to her bed. "Only you."

The next few hours passed in a blur of pleasure, as Sherlock showed her exactly how literally he meant to be taken. Molly tasted every inch of his skin, was enfolded by his wings, felt his deft fingers working every last drop of ecstasy from her as they skimmed her breasts, her sex, even parts of her body no man had ever touched before. She was so lost in sensation that it wasn't until she'd staggered into the bathroom for a drink of water that she realized her hand was no longer burning.

She came back into the bedroom somewhat hesitantly, not sure if her otherworldly lover (if she could dare call him that) would still be there or not. He was, lounging comfortably against her padded headboard, his wings sprawled across the bed with their edges touching the floor on either side. She gave him a tentative smile, and he held out one long, elegant hand toward her. "Don't be shy," he said with a smirk. "Not after all the things we've just done to each other."

Molly blushed, but moved forward and clambered onto the bed, allowing his fingers to curl around hers as he helped her settled into the cradle of his thighs. She rested her head against his shoulder as he held her, occasionally dropping absent kisses to the top of her head. Molly hated to break the mood, but she needed to know. "Sherlock?" She craned her head up to look at him.

"Molly?" he said in the same tone, a teasing smile on his lips that swiftly vanished as he took in the continued uncertainty of her expression. "You're not happy, why are you not happy? I gave you three orgasms!"

"And they were lovely," Molly rushed to reassure him. How odd, to be reassuring an angel about anything! But that was the problem, wasn't it? She was in unfamiliar territory, even after doing as much covert research about human-angel interactions as she could in her free time. "But Sherlock, I'm just...I'm a bit...confused," she finally confessed.

His expression was entirely uncomprehending. "About what?"

"Um, us, this...thing we have?" Molly waved a hand between them. "I know there's not actually an us," she hurried to add, fidgeting nervously at the thought of offending him. "But I was just wondering…" Her voice trailed off in a combination of nerves and an inability to phrase the question correctly.

"You're asking if I wish to continue this arrangement?" he asked. "The answer of course is yes. Unless and until you no longer consent, of course."

"Right, o-okay," she replied. "But what are the ground rules?" He tilted his head and squinted at her as if she'd suddenly started spouting Sanskrit. No, he probably could speak flawless Sanskrit. Either way, he was silently encouraging her to continue, so she did. "I mean, um, this is lovely, but do you expect me to be available for you at a moment's notice? I do have to work, and shop and meet up with friends...and can I talk to anyone about this or is it a secret I have to keep?" She blushed a bit as she admitted, "Actually, I already did tell someone. My doctor, John Watson."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I know. I've...had dealings with him in the past." There was something about his choice of words that made Molly want to simultaneously ask for details and immediately change the subject. Something a bit sad and regretful. "Tell anyone you like," he added before she could decide how best to respond. "No one else is likely to believe you anyway."

That much was true. Molly filed away the fact that Sherlock knew John for future reference, privately determined to get her friend and physician alone for a very long conversation as soon as possible. In the meantime, she found she had other questions clamoring for her attention, of more immediate concern. "I'm on the pill, but do I have to worry about using another form of contraception to be safe? Will you or I be in any kind of trouble because we're in a rela...uh, because of us being together? Like this?" She gestured vaguely toward their naked bodies and the bed beneath them.

"Angels who do things that are forbidden by Divine Law become part of Lucifer's Army of the Fallen," he said flatly, eyes flaring with golden light before returning to normal. Molly shivered and his voice softened as he held her closer. "Nothing we are doing falls under forbidden acts, Molly."

"Even though I'm having sex out of wedlock?" she whispered, thinking about how strictly various religious texts were interpreted since the angels had first started walking amongst mankind - had it really only been twenty years? Long enough that she could remember, from a child's perspective, how different things had been before that miraculous - and rather cataclysmic - day. Since no angel had ever willingly spoken to a human, except to pronounce judgement, no one religion could claim their existence as validation of their own beliefs, although many tried.

Molly knew how unique her experiences with Sherlock were, sex aside, but had no intention of exploiting their relationship by bombarding him with questions about the validity of any one religion over another. But she did need some sort of confirmation that what they were doing was considered a large enough sin that either of them might be punished for it.

"Sex out of wedlock is a human concept," Sherlock replied to her question, long fingers stroking the bare flesh of her arms and raising gooseflesh in their wake. "Not a divine one. Angels don't deal out retribution on sinners based on the Word of God as interpreted by man."

Molly couldn't help asking, "But you were quoting scripture when you rescued me, isn't _that _the Word of God as interpreted by man?"

She felt the low vibration as he chuckled. "Not all Holy Writ has been corrupted over time," he acknowledged.

Although she was intrigued by his words, Molly felt they were skating dangerously close to territory she'd already decided to avoid, so she only nodded. "So what about birth control, are we, um, safe? Since I'm on the pill?"

"We would be safe even if you used no birth control at all." Before she could ask him what he meant, he added, "Angels and humans copulated together in the past, and the result was the Nephilim. Because of the damage they wreaked on the world, angels are now sterile. But not forbidden to indulge in carnal activities with humans."

She wanted so badly to ask where new angels came from if they couldn't reproduce any longer (_were_ there new angels?), but kept her lips shut on that question as well. Sherlock had already shared more with her than she'd ever dreamed. He was also clearly impatient to resume their 'carnal activities', if the way his hands had drifted to her breasts was any indication. Not to mention the growing heat she could feel against her backside as his prick hardened.

So she gave up on the questions for now, even though she still had no idea what to call this thing they had between them or how he felt about her. If he felt anything at all. Her pragmatic side knew they had absolutely no future together even if he continued to sleep with her for the next thirty years, but her romantic side couldn't help conjuring up scenarios where the two of them did more than just share 'carnal activities' together.

Not that she was complaining, of course. Certainly not when he'd deftly turned her in his arms so that she straddled his lap at a rather delicious angle. And there was definitely no complaints when he kissed her, his wings coming forward to encircle them in a wall of black-and-silver feathers. Nor was she complaining when he stroked her body, softly encouraging her to raise herself up on her knees until properly positioned to take his straining cock into her body. The sigh that escaped her lips once she had fully sheathed him was matched by one of his.

Their movements, languid at first, became more urgent; Molly's fingers tangled in his hair, and his hands gripped her hips as he thrust up to meet her downward strokes. He gasped out her name, his eyes never leaving hers, the golden glow that she'd come to associate both with his dangerous power and his increasing arousal soon overwhelming the iridescent blue-green of his irises. She cried out as her orgasm hit with tsunami force, Sherlock's following almost immediately after.


	7. Angel Love

_Previously: __Their movements, languid at first, became more urgent; Molly's fingers tangled in his hair, and his hands gripped her hips as he thrust up to meet her downward strokes. He gasped out her name, his eyes never leaving hers, the golden glow that she'd come to associate both with his dangerous power and his increasing arousal soon overwhelming the iridescent blue-green of his irises. She cried out as her orgasm hit with tsunami force, Sherlock's following almost immediately after. _

_A/N: Aside from the 'previously' section above, this chapter is completely safe for work. Apologies._

* * *

He stayed the entire night, leaving only when she roused herself to prepare to work. He returned the next night, and the night after that, not only making love to her until she was sated and content (but never sore; he always took the time to heal even the slightest muscle ache) but simply talking to her. Asking her about her life, about the city she lived in and the people she knew. Telling her tiny snippets of facts about himself and his fellow angels, things she suspected no other human had ever heard before. She completely forgot about talking to John about him, hugging the secret of their continued involvement to herself, not ready to share just yet. The pain in her hand gradually stopped flaring up as a week passed, and then another, until suddenly she and Sherlock had been involved (for lack of a better word) for three months.

When she rather diffidently mentioned that to him one evening over dinner (he was cautiously trying out Thai take-away for the first time), he shrugged. "Has it? Hardly worth mentioning, really. Humans take far too much notice of time."

"Yes, well we have so little of it compared to angels," Molly said with a bit more vinegar than she'd intended. Not that she expected him to celebrate anniversaries or anything, but he could at least let her know he valued her. Or was this way of letting her know that he didn't value her after all, that she was nothing but an experiment to him, an itch to be scratched?

All the insecurities and doubts she'd been trying to ignore came rushing back, and the one question she'd tried not to ask him popped out of her mouth before she could stop herself. "How do you feel about me?"

He looked at her, simply looked at her with a blank expression on his face, holding his body absolutely still, and Molly had her answer. "Oh, right, p-pretend I didn't ask," she said numbly. "Forget it. Just...how is your Pad Thai?"

"Molly," he said warningly. She gave him a bright, artificial smile and tried to choke down some of her own food, giving it up after only a single bite. She could feel him watching her, and kept her head down, wishing desperately that she could take back the question.

A whisper of motion caught her attention; she looked up, to see him standing, wings folded tight to his body, hands immobile by his sides. Their eyes met, and his had never seemed so alien, shining with molten silver on the outside, the amber flecks on the irises a shimmering gold that overwhelmed the blue-green that usually dominated. "I have to go," he said, and even his voice was different - echoing as if her humble flat had suddenly morphed into an enormous cavern. "Good-bye."

Toby hissed and ran under the sofa, and Molly trembled as Sherlock unfurled his wings with deliberate, regal motions. He nodded and a bright light enveloped his form, so bright it hurt to look at. Molly cried out and covered her eyes; when she was able to open them again, blinking and watering, Sherlock was gone.

She wasn't a crier, never had been, but she cried now, head pillowed on her arms, which rested in turn on her bent knees. Why couldn't she have just left it alone? Why did she have to go and spoil things? His presence in her life was a gift, and instead of just appreciating it, she'd started to take it for granted - take _him _for granted. Treat him as if he was just another new boyfriend instead of a literal miracle in winged form.

Oh, but she knew why. In spite of her better instincts, in spite of knowing there could be no future between them, she'd done the most ridiculous, heart-breaking thing she could have done.

She'd fallen in love with him, and if he hadn't been aware of her feelings before, he certainly was now. No wonder he'd left; after all, there was no future for the two of them. It was kinder this way, she thought forlornly. Better to remind her of all the differences that stood between them and cut her off completely, than let her continue to foster her impossible hopes.

But it didn't feel like a kindness, not to her aching heart. It felt like abandonment.

A sharp pain in her left palm jerked her upright; she stared at it in wonder as the angelic script glowed with the same mix of shimmering gold and silver that had colored Sherlock's eyes before he left. She averted her gaze, in case it flared up too brightly, but as soon as she did the pain and light both faded away.

The words, however, remained, and she whispered them aloud. "And the greatest of these is love."

She still had no idea how they'd been transferred from his body to hers, or why, but oddly enough she found comfort in the fact that they hadn't vanished with him.

**6 Months Later**

"Tell me how you did it, John."

The now-human doctor startled as Sherlock manifested in front of him, then deliberately settled back in his chair as he frowned at his unexpected visitor. "Nice to see you, John, how've you been? Sorry to just swan in and out of your life like this, it's only been nine months since I've seen you," he said sarcastically.

Sherlock's brow arched. "Nine months? A blink of an eye, John, and you know it."

"To you, maybe," John replied, still miffed. "But not to us mere mortals. You do remember that I'm one of those now, right? And so is Molly," he added with an angry glare. "You just disappeared on her, after she as good as told you she's in love with you, and now she thinks you hate her. It's a good thing your mark is still on her palm, or else she'd - "

"Of course it's still there, why wouldn't it be?" Sherlock demanded, scowling right back at the man who'd once worn feathers as blue as his human eyes. "It's not like I was leaving forever…"

"Did you tell her that?"

Sherlock blinked. Twice. Then shifted uneasily, the tips of his wings whispering across the carpeted study floor. "I told her I had to go," he said. At John's exasperated huff, he added defensively, "What? Not good?"

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, not good at all."

Sherlock shifted uneasily again, his eyes sliding away from John's and back again, but only for a moment. With his gaze trained on the floor, he mumbled, "Was she very upset?"

"Yeah, she was upset. She thinks you left because of her feelings for you. And now she's trying to find a way to deal with a broken heart with no one but me to talk to about it. Normally I'd say me and Mary, but she doesn't want to drag her into it, Molly's words, not mine. Personally I think she'd do a lot better if she talked to Mary, but I can't force her to." He let out a huff of breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So if you're here to tell me that you're leaving, or to ask me to tell Molly…"

"I want you to tell me how you did it, John." When he received a puzzled look in response, Sherlock continued. "Became human. I want to know how you did it. I know you must have petitioned Him for the right, but did you have to do anything else?"

John gaped at him, blinked, slowly closed his mouth, then shut his eyes and shook his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge an image from his mind. Then he opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock, who was still standing there in the middle of the room, hands loose by his sides but slightly curled. An angelic tell that would translate as tightly-clenched fists in a human. "Why do you want to know?" He had his suspicions, but he had to hear them, hear the actual words from Sherlock's lips.

A shrug was the first response he received, but he waited patiently, for once having the upper hand; even Sherlock wasn't arrogant or impatient enough to simply delve into John's mind for the information he sought. He'd always prided himself on his ability to bend the rules laid down for all angels…but never to cross the line into breaking them.

Because crossing that line meant not a descent into humanity, but into damnation. A path too many of their brethren had taken when they followed Lucifer in his rebellion against God endless eons ago.

Before Sherlock answered, the door to John's study opened. "John? Who are you…ohhhh."

Mary stood frozen in the doorway, clutching the handle as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet – which, John realized as he took in her pale face and wide eyes, was entirely possible. He started to move past Sherlock to support his shocked wife, when Sherlock did something that shocked John just as much: he reached out and took Mary's elbow very gently in his hand, walked her over to the settee, and helped her to sit. "Hello, Mary. I'm…"

"Sherlock," she breathed before he could finish. John saw his – were they still friends? – his friend, yes, he'd use the word for now. Saw him raise an eyebrow and smile the little, crooked smile John remembered so well.

Mary was still staring up at him in awe, mouth partially open, but she snapped it shut when John cleared his throat. Loudly. "Sorry," she said, blushing a bit. "I knew you'd been in touch with John and that you'd been seeing...um, that you'd been in touch," she hastily corrected herself, the blush darkening with embarrassment. "I just never thought I'd get to actually meet you."

"That fault lies entirely with me," Sherlock replied, settling on the sofa next to her, his wings grazing the green-carpeted floor. Mary's eyes kept moving back and forth between them and his face, and John smiled fondly as her lips curled up and eyes crinkled with joy. Angels were usually harbingers of death, but the sight of them still fascinated humans of all kinds.

Even, it would seem, his normally unflappable wife. Who, come to think of it, had shown much the same reaction when he'd first revealed his true nature to her, twelve years ago.

Sherlock was at his charming best, asking about their children (with whom he seemed to have an honest interest, as far as John could tell) and Mary's work at the clinic. She answered him enthusiastically, and as she relaxed a bit her usual sharp intelligence reappeared. She stopped in the middle of a story about one of their regular patients, Mrs. Hudson, and how her rental flat was once again on the market due to her previous tenant's inability to stay away from the horse races, looking from John to Sherlock and back again. "I've interrupted something," she said, rising to her feet. "And you've been very gracious not to point that out to me, Sherlock, but I think I'd better let you and my husband get back to whatever you were discussing before I barged in here. Which," she added with a hint of steel to her voice, "I very much hope is Molly Hooper."

Sherlock, who'd risen to his feet when she did, simply nodded, waiting silently while Mary crossed over to John, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then walked out, pulling the door shut behind her without a single look backwards.

"So that's Mary," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John narrowed his eyes. "Yes, that's Mary. My _wife_," he added, heavily emphasizing the last word. "So no comments about how ordinary and human she is, got it? No sniping about whether she was really worth it. Because the answer is _yes_. Worth every lost power, worth every feather on my wings, worth knowing that I'll die someday. She and our children are worth it, and I wouldn't trade them for anything."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment before speaking, his tone much more serious than it had been. "Worth losing your place in His army? Worth losing your ability to see into the hearts and souls of humans? Worth becoming just one more human being among billions?"

John nodded. "Yes," he said simply.

Sherlock nodded as well, as if John had somehow confirmed a conclusion he'd already reached. And if he was contemplating what John thought he was… "Sherlock, I have the feeling you didn't ask me how I became human just to satisfy your curiosity."

The look Sherlock shot him spoke volumes - and all of them screamed 'don't be an idiot'. "Of course not."

When he fell silent, John prompted him, even though he already knew the answer. "Then why?"

This time he ignored the 'don't be an idiot' look and just waited. With an impatient huff, Sherlock gave in and answered him. "Because I want to do it, John. I want to give up everything you gave up, and for much the same reason. I know I said I thought I was falling from grace the last time we spoke, but after spending some time thinking about, I think the truth is far more troublesome. I think I've...fallen in love."

"With Molly Hooper," John said. Just to be absolutely sure.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "No, John, with you," he snapped. "Of _course _with Molly Hooper!"

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock's brow lowered in confusion, and John did his best to explain. "Do you want to be with her, are you interested in her life, her job, her friends, her damned cat? Do you know things about her from observing her, or only what you've taken from her mind? Like what a bad cook she is? She said you'd been having, erm, quite a lot of sex before you left, so are you sure it's not just physical?"

That was a loaded question, and John knew it. Angels and humans having intercourse had caused problems for their kind millennia ago, which was why angels were now sterile, male and female. But there was no diplomatic way to put it; if Sherlock was merely interested in a carnal relationship, that was no reason to become human, to give up his place among the ranks of angels serving in Heaven. It wouldn't be fair to him and it damn sure wouldn't be fair to Molly.

"No, of course it's not just physical," Sherlock snapped. "At least, I don't think it is," he added. "All I know for certain is that it's like nothing I've ever experienced before. I...enjoy her company. I find everything about her fascinating, and no, not just because of the sex or even because she now bears my mark on her hand. That can't be coincidence or accident. Not when the words are 'and the greatest of these is love'. Even you have to agree with that!"

John did, indeed, agree, but for Molly's sake continued to press. No, not just for Molly's sake, but for Sherlock's as well; he had to be absolutely certain he wanted to do this, to give up immortality for love, as John had so wholeheartedly done. There could be no doubt.

"Yeah, it's pretty obvious you two have a connection. But to give up everything and become a mortal...you can't just 'think' you're in love with Molly. You have to know it, feel it here." He tapped his fist over his heart. "There has to be more to it than just fascination. Fascination can end. Only love endures." He spoke with the absolute conviction of a man who believes in the truth of his words.

"And were you so certain when you chose to give up your immortality?" Sherlock asked, but not scornfully; no, he asked with genuine interest, unlike when he'd accused John of throwing away his future on a whim. He hadn't been willing to listen then, but he was listening now, and John wasted no time in answering his question.

John nodded. "I was. I observed Mary a long time before I even approached her, let alone had sex with her. I knew who she was before she became Mary Morstan, which was a good five years before I revealed myself to her," he said softly, a distant, remembering look in his clear blue eyes. "I knew her inside and out, I knew she was not only worthy of me – but that I was worthy of her. Before I so much as said a single word to her."

Sherlock was still for a long time, nothing moving but his eyes, darting back and forth as he reviewed something invisible to the mortal eye. John recognized that look from when the two of them had been comrades, brothers in arms serving His will. Sherlock was deep inside his own mind, no doubt reviewing every second of every interaction he'd ever had with Molly Hooper.

Nearly five minutes passed before he spoke again, and when he did, it was a single word as he looked John dead in the eye. "Yes."

John tilted his head. "Yes?" he echoed.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes." His eyes shone with determination. "I'm certain. I've fallen in love with her. And as you've already pointed out, she's in love with me. So the only thing stopping us from being together is…" He raised his wings, the silver-lined feathers shimmering even in the dim lighting of the study.

He meant it. He meant every word; John didn't need to be able to read his mind to see that.

"Right," he said with a sigh. "So here's what I did. No guarantees it'll work for you, but it's worth a try."

"Molly," Sherlock corrected him. When John gave him puzzled squint, he elaborated. "Molly's worth a try." He sounded bemused as he added, "She's worth everything, and I don't even know why or how it happened. It just...did."

_Oh boy, he's got it bad,_ John thought, feeling a cautious sort of hope. If Sherlock felt that strongly about her...yeah, it was love.

He only hoped that love would endure once Sherlock fully realized the permanency of what he was about to do.

With that in mind, he began to speak.


	8. She Talks To Angels

_Previously: _

_"Molly," Sherlock corrected him. When John gave him puzzled squint, he elaborated. "Molly's worth a try." He sounded bemused as he added, "She's worth everything, and I don't even know why or how it happened. It just...did."_

_Oh boy, he's got it bad, John thought, feeling a cautious sort of hope. If Sherlock felt that strongly about her...yeah, it was love. _

_He only hoped that love would endure once Sherlock fully realized the permanency of what he was about to do._

_With that in mind, he began to speak._

* * *

She honestly never expected to see him again, so when Molly opened the door to her flat to find Sherlock standing in the middle of her sitting room, she couldn't move. Could barely breathe as she stared at him, one hand still clutching the doorknob, the other frozen in mid-air with her keys threatening to fall from her fingers.

"I've been thinking, and John says I need to talk to you before making a decision. He also says I need to apologize to you. For leaving and staying away for so long." He thrust out his hands toward her; in them was a plate of Thai take-away. "And yes, I like Thai. The place you prefer is good, but there's one that's even better in Lampang, so I brought some for you. The owner wouldn't let me pay him," Sherlock added with a frown. "John said he probably wouldn't but I knew you wouldn't want me to just take…"

"Sherlock?" Molly's hesitant question stemmed the flow of words as effectively as if she'd shouted. "What...what are doing here? What's this about?" An angel? Apologizing to a human? Even for an angel as different as Sherlock surely was that was hard to believe.

He frowned down at the plate in his hands as if it were the cause of his unusual behavior instead of what the clinical side of Molly's mind labeled a symptom. Not the plate itself, of course, but its contents and where he'd procured said contents and, more importantly, why he'd procured them in the first place.

Which brought her right back to where she started from: utter confusion. She was definitely no expert on angels, not even this one, and she needed to know what exactly was going on.

He turned and placed the plate carefully in the center of her coffee table, contemplated it for a long moment, then walked towards her, his expression intent but otherwise unreadable. "I needed time to think about what you asked me," he said when he stopped a scant few feet in front of her. He reached over her shoulder and carefully pushed the door shut. Then he held out his hand, palm up; it took her a few seconds to realize he wanted her keys. She put them in his hand and watched as he placed them in the bowl she normally kept them in, on the rickety plant-stand that stood beneath the hooks that held her jackets and heavy cardigans.

She allowed him to help her off with her current jacket - a lightweight windbreaker that had been all she needed on this warm September day - and hung it up, along with her pocket-book, a hundred - no, a thousand - questions jostling for attention in her mind. She settled for the one that seemed most urgent. "I asked you how you feel about me. Did you...come back to give me an answer?"

He'd been pacing back and forth in the area between her small entryway and the bulk of her sitting room. The sight of Toby pouncing at the tips of his wings with every step would normally bring a smile to her lips - her cat was positively obsessed with Sherlock's feathers - but not today. Not after six months spent trying to forget about her impossible lover, trying to get on with her life as if nothing extraordinary had ever happened to her.

Six months of fretting over whether the question she'd asked him had been the reason he'd left.

Six months with not so much as an itch on her left palm and its apparently permanent angelic script. She'd taken to wearing a brace to cover it up, using the excuse of carpal tunnel syndrome - and getting a note from John Watson to that effect - to keep anyone from seeing it.

John...she still had no idea how he knew Sherlock. However they'd met or how long they'd known one another was still a mystery. When she'd pressed John, he'd simply shaken his head and told her, "It's complicated, Molly. And if Sherlock's out of your life for good, I'm not sure how useful it would be, your knowing the truth. If and when he ever comes back...I promise, I'll tell you then."

That had been only a few weeks after Sherlock's vanishing act. And now he was back. With answers, or would he leave her with more questions? Was this some sort of good-bye? The fact that he'd returned at all was something she was still trying to wrap her head around.

"I do have them. Feelings. For you."

Molly's legs threatened to give out as Sherlock finally spoke; he was at her side in an instant, sweeping her into his arms even as she tried to protest, cradling her to his chest and peering down at her in concern. "Are you ill?" His eyes went a bit unfocused for a second. "You're not physically ill, I can't sense anything wrong with you other than the usual cellular decay humans exhibit practically from birth. Pulse and heartbeat are elevated, but not due to any…"

"Sherlock, I'm - I'm fine," Molly assured him, laying a tentative hand on his chest. She managed a small smile. "I just...I wasn't expecting to hear those words from you, ever, so it was a bit of a shock, that's all. You can put me down now, I promise I won't faint."

Instead of lowering her to her feet, he held her closer. "I know. You're really rather strong for a h...you're a very strong...woman," he corrected himself. His smile was tender, and Molly's breath caught at the welling of emotion he was allowing her to see. She reached up and traced the curve of his ear, his jawline, allowed her fingers to brush against his lips.

"You have feelings for me." He nodded, although she didn't need the confirmation. "And you know I have feelings for you." He nodded again. Her hand wandered to the back of his neck, gently urging his face down so their lips could meet.

When the kiss ended, Molly rested her forehead against his for a moment, then pulled back to look at him. "So where does that leave us? Where do we go from here?"

The smile he offered this time was slow, sensual - and unbelievably wicked. "Bedroom?"

He ducked his head to kiss her again, but Molly, pulled back. "Sherlock!" she admonished him. "You've just got back from wherever it is you've been, and now you want to just…"

"Heaven, and yes, I want to make love to you, Molly."

His voice was husky; the amber specks in his blue-green irises glowed like molten gold as he turned toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. As soon as they entered it she heard the door slam shut behind them, another example of the power he wielded so casually. When he lowered her to her feet and made to kiss her again, however, she forced herself to pull back; they needed to talk before they did anything else. Even making love.

It gave her goosebumps just hearing him call it that, but no matter how otherworldly his origins, he'd said he had feelings for her and she needed to know what that meant for them. For their future. Things had obviously progressed beyond the mere physical, but what was next?

"Sherlock, wait, just wait, please," she begged him as he started undoing the buttons on her blouse.

He made a very impatient huffing noise and rolled his eyes, stilling his hands. "Fine, you want to talk, we'll talk. But after we talk, I want us both naked and on that bed, preferably with my head between your thighs."

He really was doing his best to weaken her resolve; Molly felt a flush of molten desire sheet over her body. "I-I suppose we can talk after," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

"Mmm, yes, exactly," Sherlock mumbled in response, his mouth already on her neck and his hands once again unbuttoning her blouse. He never simply caused her clothing to vanish the way he did his own, and she'd often wondered if he gained enjoyment from doing it himself.

As soon as she was naked, his own clothing vanished with the flick of an eye. "Gonna miss that," he murmured as he laid her on the bed and began mouthing her breasts. "At least I've got in enough practice in taking yours off."

"Wait - what?" Molly asked, confusion and a sudden flush of anxiety clenching her stomach. "What do you mean, you'll miss doing that? You mean just sort of whooshing your clothes away? Why will you miss it?"

He shrugged. "Obviously I won't be able to do it once I become human, Molly." His tone of voice said _don't be an idiot_, but Molly was too shocked by his words to be offended by the way in which he spoke.

She scrambled out from underneath him, heart pounding in her chest, groping for the dressing gown lying across the foot of her bed. Sherlock had rolled on his side and was staring at her quizzically as she fumbled the garment onto her body and tied the belt with shaking hands. She backed up a few steps as he slowly sat up. In the blink of an eye his trousers reappeared on his body, although he remained shirtless.

"Wh-what do you, what do you mean, become human?" Molly stammered out, eyes wide and very nearly frightened. "Is that even possible?"

He nodded and rose to his feet. "It is. It's been done before, by at least one other angel."

"Who?" she asked in a whisper.

"Come, now, Molly, don't be stupid," he said impatiently. "You know who."

Oh God, she did. It made perfect sense.

John Watson. She forced the name through numb lips, and Sherlock nodded. "Does Mary - Mary must know, right?" A memory tapped at her mind for attention. "They have children, you said angels can't - "

"Angels can't but humans can, Molly," Sherlock said, cutting her off impatiently. "John's human now, permanently, so he can do whatever humans can do. Including procreating."

"And - and...dying?" Molly felt tears clogging her throat, tears of panic and dread. She didn't need his nod to know the answer to her question, and it staggered her to the very depths of her soul. Surely he didn't mean to give up his immortality...just for _her_? "Why?" she demanded, one hand covering her mouth in a futile attempt to keep back the sobs she felt trying to force their way out. "Why would you even, even think about doing something like that?"

Before Sherlock could say anything, however, a new voice cut in, startling them both. "A very good question. Tell us, Sherlock, why you would even consider such a ridiculous idea?"

Sherlock spat out what sounded very much like a curse, while Molly whirled to face the intruder. Cold terror overtook her at the sight of another angel in her flat - this one decidedly unfriendly to her and possibly to Sherlock as well, judging by the flaming sword he held in one hand, and the icy disdain that was the only readable expression on his remote, forbidding face.

Unlike Sherlock, he was clad in the garb worn by so many of their kind: a blindingly white one-shouldered tunic, vaguely Greek or Roman looking, a massive gold belt around his waist, a white-and-gold kilt, gold sandals on his feet, and, of course, the massive sword. His wings were a magnificent red-gold, like molten copper, and his eyes were the shimmering azure of the Mediterranean in summer, with the same flecks of gold that the sunlight gave to the tops of the waves.

"Mhyzk'rovvth," Sherlock spat out. Molly shivered at the raw anger in his voice. She risked a glance at him, and saw that he was once again fully clothed - and holding his own sword, its blade pointed toward the floor while small flames of purest silver licked at the blade. "What in His name are _you _doing here?"

"Trying to talk you out of making the biggest mistake of your immortal life, brother dear."

"This is none of your concern, Mhyzk'rovvth." Sherlock's voice was a dangerous growl, and Molly stumbled away from the two angels, backing up until she hit the wooden doors of her small wardrobe. Who was this second angel? Some enemy? One of the Fallen, as Sherlock referred to those angels who'd sided with Lucifer? But then, why call Sherlock 'brother dear'? Unless he...Mycroft?...meant it in a purely non-biological manner? Like brothers-in-arms or something?

Mycroft gave her a withering look. "Not that it's any of your business, human, but he's my _actual _brother. Born before the Great Sterilization. Boring, moving on."

Sherlock took a threatening step forward. "Don't speak to Molly that way, Mhyzk'rovvth. And stop trying to frighten her. She's done nothing to warrant any sort of divine punishment, and you know it."

"Tempting an angel into sin is hardly the act of an innocent, Zh'erlhozk." The flaming sword glowed a little brighter, the threat clear, and Molly's terror of the unknown crystallized into the certainty that she was about to die.

That certainty was what helped her find her voice; if these were her last minutes, she wasn't going to go down cowering in her own bedroom.

"Sherlock said it wasn't a sin."

Both brothers turned to stare at her, as if they'd forgotten her presence except in the abstract. "Did he lie to me? Was it a sin, us having sex?" When they remained silent, she was emboldened to take a single step forward, away from the comforting bulk of the wardrobe. "Is it a sin, him wanting to become human? Because if it is, then I suppose I am guilty, even if I never meant to tempt him that way. I never even knew it was possible until he told me a few minutes ago." She turned her head deliberately to meet Sherlock's gaze. "And if I had known, I would never have asked him to give up his life for me like that. I would never ask him to make such a sacrifice."

Sherlock's sword vanished; one minute it was there, the next it was simply gone. He crossed the room, ignoring his brother, his attention entirely on her. Reaching out, he tenderly cradled her face in both hands. "It's no sacrifice, Molly. Not for you." Raising his voice, this time speaking to both her and Mycroft, he added, "I finally understand what Zhvjonhva'tszhonh was trying to tell me, twelve years ago."

"Zhvjonhva'tszhonh was a fool, a weak, sentimental fool," Mycroft cut in harshly. "And now he's a _mortal _fool. Dying even as we stand here, just like she is." His sword had vanished, Molly noted, still feeling the strange calm that had stolen over her when she was certain she'd never leave this room alive.

"His name is John now, and I've never seen him happier," Sherlock replied, still looking at Molly. Smiling softly at her, his thumbs grazing her cheekbones. "He has children, Mhyzk'rovvth. Three children, two boys and a girl. He and Mary are thinking about having at least one more." There was a faint hint of something in his voice - wistfulness, or maybe even longing, unless Molly was imagining it. No, it was there in his eyes as well, and suddenly his desire to become human made a bit more sense to her. "I asked him if it had been worth it, giving up what he'd been to become something lesser...but I was wrong to ask it that way. Becoming human isn't a sacrifice, Mhyzk'rovvth. It's a gift. One that only He can bestow."

He released Molly with a lingering caress of his fingers before turning to face his brother again. "One I intend to ask him to give me," he said steadily.

He held his brother's gaze, unfaltering, unflinching in spite of the other angel's obvious dissatisfaction with his words. After a long, tense minute, he spat out a string of syllables Molly couldn't even begin to untangle, then vanished in a flare of golden light that failed to give off even the faintest hint of warmth.

As soon as he was gone Sherlock gathered Molly into his arms, holding her close and dropping kisses to the crown of her head as she leaned her face into his chest. The preternatural calm had vanished with the other angel, and she was trembling, shaking from head to foot.

For the first time, Sherlock used one of his powers other than healing on her; one second they were standing in front of the wardrobe, the next they were in her bed, under the comforting warmth of the blankets, their clothing banished but not out of any sort of carnal desire. Sherlock held her in his arms, his wings arced forward in that way he had, as if shielding them from the outside world. Her head was on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady, and eventually her trembling stopped.

"You meant it, what you said. You're going to ask...Him...to make you human." There was wonder in her voice, and fear, and Sherlock knew that if he reached out to skim her emotions, the fear would overwhelm the wonder.

"I am," he said simply. When she opened her mouth to offer up some form of protest, he shushed her with a tender smile. "Hush, Molly, I've made my decision and I'm at peace with it. I love you." For the first time, he said the words aloud to her. "You've made me see how hollow my existence was before I met you. And no, it's not just sex, it's never been just sex even if I told myself that's all it was at the time. I won't regret it, I won't forsake you, and I won't ever change my mind. I need you to be at peace with that, too. I need you to stop thinking that I'm giving anything up 'just' to be with you." His voice softened. "It's never 'just' anything with you, Molly Hooper."

He waited until he saw acceptance in her eyes before he kissed her, softly and lovingly, for the first time not intending it as a prelude to passion. She kissed him back, then pulled away, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth while he stroked her hair soothingly.

He held back a sigh. "What is it?" he asked, although he already knew the question even before she asked it.

"Mycroft. What was that he said, right before he left?"

This time he allowed the sigh to escape his lips, weighing the answer carefully before speaking. "Apparently he's decided to wash his hands of me."

Molly turned her face up so she could see him. "But what did he say?"

With another sigh, Sherlock capitulated. "He said, 'on your head be it'."

He kissed her. She returned the kiss trustingly, and he shoved down an unfamiliar feeling of guilt at lying to her for the first time. A sign that he was truly ready to become human, perhaps; wanting to keep an unpleasant truth from the woman he loved.

Oh, Mhyzk'rovvth had said what he translated for Molly, all right.

What he hadn't told her, however, was that his brother's last words after that were, "This isn't finished."

* * *

_End note: Oh, those melodramatic Holmes brothers, what would we do without them? Many thanks to asteraceaeblue for a fab betaing job, and to all my readers and followers and reviewers. You guys make this all worthwhile._


	9. Even Angels Fall

_A/N: Some fairly graphic descriptions of injuries in this one folks. Thank you to asteraceaeblue as always, for her wonderful betaing. And thank YOU everyone for being patient and leaving reviews when I do finally update!_

* * *

She tried to talk him out of it; of course she did. How could she not, when she loved him so much? They even argued about it, but Sherlock was adamant. Molly couldn't help but wonder how much of his stubbornness was the arrogance of being an angel, and how much of it was just Sherlock.

She had the opportunity to learn that less than a week later, as she frantically dialed John Watson's number while kneeling over Sherlock's broken and bleeding body.

**oOo**

She usually avoided this route on her way home, the one that took her past the alley where she and Sherlock had first met. Yes, the memory of what they'd shared was special, but everything else about the encounter had been horrible, and the neighborhood certainly hadn't got any better in the interim. However, here she was, just a little past five o'clock in the evening, not noticing where she was until suddenly the entrance to the alley was ahead of her. Her steps slowed as she finally realized which path her feet had taken her - not entirely of her own volition, as she would later learn - and she huffed in annoyance. Well, she was already there, no point in retracing her steps. Lips compressed in a thin line, she hurried on, intent on getting out of this location as quickly as possible, when the sound of a thunderclap nearly deafened her.

The problem was, it was a clear, sunny day.

And the sound came, not from overhead, as she'd first (understandably) assumed...but from the very place she wished most to avoid: the alley.

Before she realized it she was moving, running toward the dark side-street, heart pounding and throat tight with terror as she careened around the corner, stopping only when she reached the dead-end in which she'd once been trapped and attacked...and eventually saved.

Her heart nearly stopped at the sight that met her eyes: a man, broken and bleeding, wearing a torn black shirt and trousers, feet bare and bloodied as the rest of him, lay on the pavement. Over him stood the angel Mycroft, blazing sword in one hand, held point downward as he gazed at the fallen man at his feet. As Molly pounded up to them, stopping short at the sight before her eyes, he looked up, his expression arctic. "This," he proclaimed, his voice rolling and echoing unnaturally as he pointed his sword at her, "is entirely YOUR fault."

Molly stumbled back a step, terrified that she was about to be burnt to ash, but after a long minute in which the two of them did nothing but stare at one another, Mycroft lowered the sword again, eyes still flashing with fury - and what Molly thought might be sorrow, there and gone in his eyes almost too quickly for her to see. Without another word, he launched himself skyward, vanishing much as his brother had from this very alley, months earlier.

Sherlock. "Oh my God," she moaned as she stumbled forward, dropping to her knees by the stricken man. "No no no, please…"

But it was him. There was no mistaking those features, the soft curls, even matted as they now were with sweat and blood, the lean body, the face so pale and gaunt beneath the spatters and trickles of blood…

"Sherlock," she said, praying for some sign of consciousness even as she fumbled her mobile out of her handbag. "Sherlock, it's Molly, can you hear me?"

He let out a soft, almost inaudible moan, then opened his eyes. Just a crack, just enough for her to see them. Even with the pupils blown she could tell that the silver glint that normally adorned his irises was utterly gone. "Yes," he croaked in response to her question.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed. With shaking hands, she readied her mobile and called up a familiar number. "John? It's Molly. I need you to help me - well, not me. It's...it's Sherlock." She drew a deep, shuddering breath as John's urgent questions filled her ear.

Blinking back tears, she looked down at the unconscious - _human _\- form lying in front of her. "He needs...he needs h-help," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Can you come? And bring Mary, we have to get him to, to a hospital or...something."

Sherlock let out a low moan, and shifted from his side to his back. Molly nearly dropped the mobile at the sight that greeted her horrified gaze: the black shirt was shredded, blood-soaked, and beneath the dark fabric she saw not only glimpses of pale flesh...but the fresh, raw wounds that marked where his wings had once been.

"Hurry, John," she said brokenly as she gabbled out their location. "Oh, God, _hurry_."

**oOo**

There was pain - pain like he'd never experienced in his long millennia of existence. He cried out, tried to move, but couldn't; panic threatened to overwhelm him as he attempted to move his body from the unknown _here _to somewhere - anywhere! - else...and couldn't. Not only could he not move, he couldn't even remember _how _to access the angelic ability he'd been imbued with since his creation. Not only that, there was a sense of something missing - no, of _many _things missing - from his mind. Memories, abilities…all gone, or worse, still there but just out of reach.

The pain in his body flared, reminding him that it wasn't simply a mental loss he'd suffered. There was something wrong, something off, but he couldn't even try to figure out what it was. Not while he was so confused, so angry and - although he was loath to admit it, even now, even to himself - frightened.

A voice, low and soothing, caught his attention. A voice calling his name - no, not his name, only the human approximation of his name. "Sherlock," the voice said, and some of the pain miraculously seemed to subside. "Sherlock, it's Molly, can you hear me?"

She sounded odd, her voice thick and harsher than normal - had she been crying? Was she crying now? He forced his eyelids open and saw her, blearily at first, but his vision sharpened to something approaching normal, and he managed to croak out an affirmative.

"Oh, thank God," she said, and yes, there were streaks of tears on her face, and her nose was red and her skin was blotchy. Frowning, he reached out with his mind to remove her pain - and that was when the memories of what he'd endured (_for her, all for her_) came crashing back into his consciousness.

His wings. Automatically he tried to flex them, crying out from the pain that movement caused. His wings, his beautiful, powerful wings...gone. "Gone," he moaned, feeling tears - actual, human tears! - leaking from his eyes, seeing the same phenomenon on Molly's lovely face.

"Yes," she said brokenly. "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

He whimpered and closed his eyes, unable to bear the sorrow in hers. Not sorrow for herself, but for him. What had he done, indeed? He whimpered again at the burning agony that encased his form, barely conscious enough to hear Molly's voice again. What was she saying, was she talking to him? No, she was on her mobile, calling someone...who? "John? It's Molly. I need you to help me - well, not me. It's...it's Sherlock."

John. Good, she was calling John. The rest of her words became indistinct, although he knew she was talking about him to John. John would know what to do; he'd gone through this already, after all. And he'd tried to warn him, had spared Sherlock no detail when he'd described what he'd had to endure in order to become human, but he'd brushed the former angel's words aside in his eagerness to begin his new life. To become one of them: to shed his immortality, the full memories of his long existence (too many, far too many for a human brain to contain), all the God-given abilities he'd taken for granted...gone, all gone.

In spite of the pain, in spite of the sorrow that suffused him, he couldn't feel a moment's regret. Not when Molly was there with him, reminding him that yes, it was worth it, that it would _always _be worth it. He smiled, then fell back into darkness.


	10. Broken Wings

The ride to John and Mary's clinic was a tense one. They couldn't risk bringing Sherlock to a hospital unless his injuries were too severe to be treated by the two of them. Mary hadn't had time to put together the false identity they'd decided to create for him once he declared his intentions - and why Mary was the one to do it, Molly had been hesitant to ask.

The only reason they chanced taking him to the clinic first was because of the fact that, despite the amount of blood on his body, Sherlock wasn't injured nearly as badly as Molly had feared. No broken bones except for his right wrist - dominant hand, John had muttered, and she supposed it was significant - probable concussion, bruised ribs, multiple cuts and contusions...and of course, the mangled parts of his shoulders where his wings had once been.

Molly held his head cradled in her lap, holding back sobs at the whimpers of pain Sherlock occasionally made in his sleep. She couldn't imagine how much it must hurt, nor could she imagine how he would react once the reality of what he'd done fully hit him.

"Was it like this for you?" she asked, unable to hold the questions back. "Is this how you became h-human, John?"

He looked over the seat at her. Mary was driving, but she flashed her husband a glance and nodded before returning her attention to the road. "It was very similar," John said. "Except the angel who was sent to remove my wings wasn't so angry at me that she was willing to leave me bleeding in an alley."

"Mycroft hates me," Molly said, her eyes on Sherlock. Watching him breathe as they sped through the city streets. The wounds left by the brutal chopping off of his wings were partially cauterized, although she doubt very much that Mycroft had intended that small bit of mercy. At least there was no chance Sherlock would bleed to death before they got him to the clinic.

She fought down the bitterness she felt toward the angel - how could anyone do this to their own brother, to someone they claimed to love? At least John had been shown more than just accidental mercy.

As if he understood where her thoughts were leading, John spoke again. "It's always someone close to you," he said, eyes focused on some unseen memory. "There are many more of us who've made this choice than Sherlock was willing to believe, although I tried to tell him. For me, it was my sister-angel, Harry. She was so sad to lose me, but at least she believed me when I told her that this was the right choice for me. So she did it, cut off my wings and brought me to Mary - then healed me. So I have no scars, nothing to show I was ever anything but John Watson."

"She made sure I saw him bleeding, though," Mary said tightly. "She wanted me to know exactly how much John was sacrificing to be with me. To make sure I appreciated it - and him. That's why Mycroft did it this way; he _wanted _you to see."

Molly closed her eyes, trying to banish the image of Mycroft standing over Sherlock's battered form, the fury in the angel's eyes as he glared at her. "_This is entirely YOUR fault,_" she heard him say, over and over in her mind as her guilt threatened to eat her alive. "He blames me for this - and why shouldn't he? He's right, this is all my fault…"

"No." The voice was barely a whisper, but it was Sherlock's. Molly and John both looked down at him, and the tears that had been threatening finally began to fall as Molly met his gaze. His eyes were still beautiful, still an unearthly mix of blue and green, but they were human and full of pain. He slowly, painfully raised his left hand to reach up and brush her tears from her cheeks. "Not...your fault," he rasped. "My choice...and I'd...make it...again."

She caught his hand and held it to her lips as he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

"He's right, Molly," John said, fumbling in the glove compartment for some tissues. He found a crumpled handful and passed them over to her. "It's not your fault and you shouldn't ever blame yourself. _Ever_. Sherlock made a choice, a conscious decision, and his petition never would have been granted if his love for you wasn't deep and abiding. That sort of love is worth any sacrifice," he added. His words were fierce, but the look he gave Mary was tender. She smiled and squeezed his hand without looking or saying anything, but Molly could see how strong their love was.

All she could do was pray that Sherlock's love for her was just as strong, and that he wouldn't come to someday regret his decision.

**oOo**

Sherlock was sleeping. Molly watched him breathing as he lay on his stomach, his back bandaged, his wrist in a cast, the blood cleaned up and all other injuries - minor, as John had said, thank God for small favors - attended to.

When Molly had asked John how long it would take Sherlock to heal, he'd shrugged. "It's different for everyone, Molly, you know that."

"Are you sure? Is there any chance it'll go faster for him?" Molly had asked. "I mean, it's not like he's some ordinary bloke." She could hear the edge of hysteria to her voice, and she did her best to clamp down on it as she continued speaking. "He's _special_, there must be something different about him, even now…"

She'd fallen silent as she belatedly remembered who she was talking to - the one man that understood, that _knew_, exactly what to expect. And the sad sympathy in his blue eyes had told her before he even spoke what the answer would be. "No, Molly, sorry. Once one of us becomes human...that's it. No more special abilities. No more healing power. It's all gone. The only thing that I can do that's any different to a human is sense when an angel or one of the Fallen is nearby - and by nearby, I mean, in within a few feet of me. That's it."

She'd nodded while Mary had hugged her close. "I know how you feel, luv, I truly do," the other woman had said. "Never forget that - you aren't alone in this. We're here for you."

"Yeah, always," John had said. "Promise."

Molly had thanked them, deeply touched by their loyalty and friendship.

That had been hours ago. She'd tried to get some sleep, as John had urged her to do before heading to his office for a kip, but found herself startling awake at the slightest sound.

Sherlock moved restlessly in his sleep, a soft grunt of pain escaping his lips. She hitched her chair forward and laid a comforting hand over his. He groaned, his eyes flickering open. "Molly?" he croaked.

"Shh, it's all right, I'm here," she said, automatically pitching her voice low. "Are you in pain? Shall I get John?"

He gave a brief, negative shake of the head, and interlaced his fingers with hers. Molly's heart constricted at the sensation, and she couldn't stop a small smile from hovering over her lips. "How long?" he mumbled.

Molly fumbled her mobile out of her pocket and checked the time. "It's been about six hours since I found you, and about four hours since John treated your injuries."

"How...bad?"

She swallowed, hard, as he asked the question she'd been dreading. "Um, well, you have a broken wrist, that's why it's in a cast, and head trauma, and some scrapes on your left cheek. You also have a lot of, uh, cuts and contusions, and of course your...your back is…" She swallowed hard, unable to get the words out, blinking back tears. "Just let me, um, get John, he's sleeping in his office and Mary went home because their neighbor who was watching the children had to go to work - she works nights - and…"

"Molly." She fell silent as he spoke her name. "I know they're...gone." He gestured weakly toward his back with his (relatively) good hand. "It was the whole, the whole, _ungh_, point of this."

She waited while he panted through the renewed pain he was obviously feeling, her heart clenching in her chest. Fresh anger at his brother for being so brutal coursed through her, temporarily overwhelming her guilt and helplessness. "Let me get John," she tried again when Sherlock's breathing returned to normal, but he shook his head.

"No. But I need...I need to see." Unbelievably, he pushed himself up from the bed, leaning on one trembling arm to do so. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his entire body was shaking with the effort. Without thinking, Molly reached out to help support him, even though she ought to focus her efforts on getting him to lie back down.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

John's outraged voice from the door distracted her; Sherlock slipped slightly in her hold, her left hand pressed itself against his bare chest, directly over his heart…

...and the room exploded in light.

* * *

_A/N: Sorrynotsorry for the cliffie. The good news is that I know exactly what happens next and how the next chapter shakes out. Stay tuned, and thank you as always for reading, reviewing and following!_


	11. Healing Hands

"Molly! Molly, can you hear me?"

Molly groaned and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, willing that voice away. She didn't want to be awake; her head and her hand both throbbed with pain. But the voice wouldn't go away, and soon it was joined by the feel of someone's hands on her, turning her onto her back, gently running over her body, lightly touching her face.

"Molly, I know you're conscious so answer me, dammit!"

Her eyes flew open as she finally recognized the owner of both voice and hands. "Sh-sherlock?" she said groggily, wincing as her left palm flared with renewed pain.

Sherlock was leaning over her, and something about that was very, very wrong, but she couldn't quite figure out why. Her thoughts were scattered, fuzzy, skittering away from her every time she tried to catch hold of them. "Why am I on the floor?" she finally asked as she allowed him to help her sit up.

Oh, wait, _that's _what was wrong! "Sherlock!" she gasped out, mind and eyes both finally snapping into focus as she stared up at him. "You shouldn't be out of bed, your injuries…!"

"Are apparently fully healed," he interrupted her with a grin that morphed into a frown as he lightly ran his fingers over the lump on the back of her head. "Which is more than I can say for either you or John."

Molly allowed Sherlock to help her to a sitting position, automatically scanning the room as he did so. "Where's John? What happened to us?"

"He's looking for a burn kit for you." Sherlock carefully held up her hand, showing her the scorched and shredded bandages that had once covered her palm. The nasty burn she could see beneath them certainly explained the throbbing pain...but she still had no idea how she'd been burnt in the first place. "He has a nasty bump on his head, much like yours but managed to escape any other injury."

"I don't understand, what happened to us?" she asked. Her eyes widened and she let out a little gasp as she took in the fact that the bandages wrapped around Sherlock's chest were also singed - right over his heart.

"If I had to guess - which I never do, indicates sloppy thinking even for a human - I'd say that there must have been vestiges of divine energy in the sigils that transferred to you when we first met," he said. "Energy that was released when you laid your hand on my chest, thus healing my injuries - although having an unfortunate effect on the two of you at the same time."

"But I've touched you lots of times," Molly protested. "This wasn't even bare skin to bare skin!"

"But not with your left hand to my chest, not since I was turned human," he pointed out.

"Is that even possible?" Molly asked, still staring at her hand. It was impossible to see anything beneath the nasty looking burn that marred her flesh.

"Obviously it's possible, since it happened," Sherlock replied. "No other explanation makes sense, especially when you consider this."

"Consider what...oh," Molly said, feeling another wave of dizziness pass over her as Sherlock tugged at the scorched bandages so that she could see the skin over his heart. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing, and as she did she gave a smothered gasp.

Scars, raised welts, in the shape of the angelic script that had once resided there. She raised her eyes to his, her lips trembling with emotion, as he cupped her hand in his, palm up. "Look," he urged her, and she allowed her gaze to drop. She sucked in her breath as she saw the burn slowly fading away, along with the silvery markings that had adorned her palm since that fateful first meeting with Sherlock. No scars, not a sign that her hand had ever been anything but human flesh and bone.

As the sigils vanished, so did the pain, leaving nothing but a slight tingle that gradually faded as well. She looked up, awe-struck, to see Sherlock smiling down at her. He lifted her hand and pressed a gentle, reverent kiss against her unmarked flesh. "_And the greatest of these is love_," he quoted softly. "Now I understand why the words were transferred from my flesh to yours."

"I don't," Molly admitted. "Are you saying that, um, I was meant to heal you?" She shied away from the question she really wanted to ask - _did God plan this for us or did He just know it was going to happen?_

"Maybe." Sherlock shrugged. "Some things aren't meant to be understood, at least not by humans. Thus the term 'ineffable'." He smiled at her, a tender, loving smile that made her knees go a bit rubbery - and definitely not from pain. "All I do know is, you healed me, Molly."

It was still hard for her to believe, and she definitely felt uneasy taking credit for it, even at second-hand. She chuckled nervously at the unintended double meaning. "I can see that all your cuts and bruises are gone," she admitted. "But what about your wrist? And your back?"

"I'm certain once the cast is removed, you'll find my wrist is completely healed as well," he reassured her. "As for my back, judging by the bit of tightness across my shoulders. I'd say I have some scarring." He pulled impatiently at the loosened bandages still partially covering his torso; once he'd removed them, he twisted round and there they were: two oval scars roughly the size of her hands where his wings had once been, but no longer the raw wounds that had been there only hours before.

"This...it looks like an old injury, something that happened years ago," she whispered in astonishment.

"All because of you."

"What's all because of Molly?" John demanded as he reentered the room, burn kit in hands.

Sherlock showed him his back and chest, rendering the other man momentarily speechless. "Oh, and you won't be needing that," he added, nodding at the burn kit. When John turned to Molly, she held out her now-healed hand and shrugged.

He shook his head and plopped onto the bed next to Molly. "'God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform'," he quoted.

"Indeed he does," Sherlock agreed placidly. "We can debate the whys and wherefores of it later, if you don't mind." He smiled down at Molly. "Right now, I'd very much like you to remove this cast so I can go home with Molly so we can have some life-affirming sex - and I'm sure you'll want to do the same with Mary."

John shook his head and pointed at Sherlock. "No," he said loudly. "Not talking about that with you. You're going to have to learn human boundaries, just like I did."

"But surely you have some insight for me, John!" Molly wasn't sure if Sherlock was serious or if he was just taking the piss with the other man. "I've never had sex as a human and you have - at least four times since that's the number of offspring you and Mary have produced…"

"That subject is completely off limits," John said firmly. "And Mary and I have three children, I'll thank you to remember!"

"Mm, no, four," Sherlock corrected him smugly. "Or rather, soon to be four."

John gave him a suspicious look. "There's no way you could know something like that, not as a human!"

"John, how could you be so blind? You're married to the woman!" Sherlock scoffed. "Didn't you notice how affected she was by the sight of my blood, how green her complexion was as you worked on me? I might have been drifting in and out of consciousness and in the worst pain of my life, but I can assure you, the signs were still there for anyone to see!"

John threw up his hands in a gesture of aggravated surrender. "Fine, I'll ask her when I get home. Which," he added sternly, "won't be until I'm absolutely sure you're as fully healed as you appear to be. From the physical trauma, anyway. Not much I can do about any potential emotional trauma until and unless it manifests itself."

"Unlikely; I made the choice to be human with my eyes wide open, just as you did," Sherlock replied with a huff.

"Yeah, and I developed a form of PTSD that last for a good two years," John shot back. "So don't think it can't happen to you. Just remember - if it does, don't try to ignore it or it'll only get worse."

"Don't worry, John," Molly interjected as she tucked herself against Sherlock's side, his arm automatically encircling her shoulder. "I'll be there for him, just as Mary was for you. And I know you'll do everything you can to help make this transition work."

"Yeah, course I will," John replied with a small smile. "Now, let's see what's going on under that cast, make sure everything's in working order and get the three of us out of here, shall we?"

* * *

_A/N: I couldn't have found a more perfect title for this chapter if I tried. It's an Elton John song and I urge you to listen to it, or at least check out the lyrics! Thank you to lilsherlockian1975 for reading this over for me, and I hope you enjoy the direction the story's taking!_


	12. A Higher Love

_A/N: Apologies for the delay and the brevity of this chapter, but I admit to being a wee bit distracted by the new season. Thanks for your patience and your reviews, I love them and appreciate them all!_

* * *

After receiving a clean bill of health by John - who was the only one still sporting an injury, a cricket-ball sized lump on the back of his head - Molly and Sherlock returned to her flat. Hours later they would discover a message on her mobile that read simply, _Sherlock was right._

Mary Watson was pregnant with their fourth child. It was wonderful news that the four of them would celebrate together. But first, Sherlock and Molly had some private celebrating of their own to do. The door to Molly's flat was barely closed behind them before they fell into one another's arms. "It'll be different," Molly breathlessly warned him as he impatiently tugged at her clothes.

"Yes, of course, I know," he agreed, pulling her close for a lingering kiss.

But he didn't realize just _how _different it would be until he was buried deep inside her as a human man rather than an angel.

He had less stamina, for one thing. He came within minutes, for the first time not bringing her pleasure before achieving his own. He rectified that almost immediately by going down on her, grimacing at the taste of his own cum and privately wondering if it had tasted as badly when he was an angel and if so how Molly could possibly have ever allowed his cock near her mouth more than once. Once he'd managed to get past that and could feel her slick wetness against his tongue and lips, could taste and breathe in the musky aroma of Molly beyond his own less-than-appetizing emissions, he no longer cared that it was different. Because this, the most important part of the equation - Molly Hooper - was the same.

Her voice moaning out his name was the same. Her fingers tugging at his curls were the same. Her clit rising beneath his tongue was the same, her _everything _was the same and that was all he needed. He suckled and licked and tasted and rejoiced at the exquisite sameness of Molly Hooper and when she came, he felt a profound sense of relief - liberally mixed with a very new masculine sense of pride - that he hadn't failed her entirely during their first time together as two humans making love.

Sherlock was suddenly no different than any of the billions of other humans that covered the planet...including Molly Hooper.

And for the life of him, he couldn't remember why he'd ever thought that could be a bad thing.

**oOo**

"You'll need a last name," Molly said some hours later as they lay together in her - their- bed.

"Mm-hm," he replied absently, analyzing the lethargy that came in the aftermath of strenuous physical activity. He'd actually dozed a bit after that first time, then allowed Molly to chivvy him into his first-ever shower, where he'd discovered that his refractory period was apparently on the fast side...and that water made for poor lubrication when it came to sex. They'd left the spray on after he'd tumbled the pair of them onto the inadequate bath mat and cold tile floor and Molly had laughingly complained but this time he'd managed to give her an orgasm before achieving his own so all other variables were easily ignored.

Molly deciding they Needed To Talk, on the other hand, could _not _be ignored. "I said, you'll need a last name," she repeated in a louder voice than he was used to hearing from her. Unless it was cries of 'oh God yes, Sherlock, yes' or 'faster, please, faster, harder' and the like.

"Pick one," he huffed, burying his head in the pillow and trying to tug her closer. Inspiration struck and he offered what he thought to be the perfect solution. "Or I can just use Hooper."

The pause before she responded was so lengthy he thought she'd finally fallen asleep and was on the cusp of doing so himself when her low voice brought him back to full wakefulness.

"No. Not Hooper."

He leaned up on one elbow, impatiently brushing the sweaty mass of curls from his forehead (another thing to get used to, uncooperative hair) as he looked down at her. She was lying flat on her back, her eyes very wide and very serious. "Why not Hooper?" he asked, utterly unable to fathom why him taking her name seemed to bother her this much. He felt a clench of disappointment in his stomach; why _not _let him take her name? She owned his heart and his soul, why not let the world know it from the very start?

"Because you need to have your own identity," she said firmly.

Even with his now-blunted, purely human senses and intellect, he could read her determination, her conviction that she was right. Since he truly didn't care one way or another, he just nodded. "Okay, then. My own last name."

"And don't forget we agreed you should have your own flat," Molly reminded him. John and Mary had both strongly advised her on that point, and once she'd heard their reasons - the depression and PTSD John had suffered after first turning human - she'd agreed and made him agree as well. Not that he actually _did _agree that it was a good idea, but it would make Molly happy, and he wanted her to be happy. Always.

"What was that?" he interrupted her. She'd continued speaking while his mind wandered - he'd have to get used to not being able to concentrate on infinite subjects at the same time - and something she'd just said had recaptured his full attention.

She sighed. "I said you need your own flat. Someplace to call your own…"

"No, after that," he interrupted again, this time more impatiently.

"All I said after that was that you needed a real home," Molly replied, a wrinkle between her eyes signifying confusion.

"A home." _That _was the word. "Fine, yes, I'll let you find me a flat even though we both know I'll never sleep there. This is my home - no, not your flat; wherever _you _are is home." He smiled. "And that's the name I want. To always remind me of you even when we're not physically together. Home. Homes...I think that's a real name, yes?"

She nodded. "Holmes, that's the name you're thinking of." A faint tinge of pink stained her cheeks - a blush? Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? Did she think it was a bad idea? Before he could ask, she said, "I think that's lovely, Sherlock. Yes, it'll work." She nodded and pulled him close for a kiss. "Welcome to the world, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered. "May you never regret becoming part of it for so much as a single second."

"Never," he said confidently. How could he, when he had everything he'd never known he wanted?


End file.
